


Vertigo (English version)

by kirin_calls



Series: Gravity (English version) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Sex, Deep Purple (Sex Club), Depiction of Violence, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, Grimm's Fairy Tales - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Past and Present, Threesome - M/M/M, depiction of drug use, written before the S4 desaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 133,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14207568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirin_calls/pseuds/kirin_calls
Summary: Sequel toRAW. John is struggling with his loss. Plagued by nightmares, his life gone topsy-turvy, he is no longer able to lead a normal existence. As he seeks out some stability, some way to slowly pull himself up out of the morass of his grief, old rivals become friends and details about Sherlock's past come to light, leading John to discover something strange that won't let him go.





	1. Tuesday, 26.06.2012

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).



> Ahoy! Welcome back to the Raw’verse, with the long-awaited sequel to Raw. It will be helpful to have read Raw first in order to understand the context and relationships between the characters. This story begins pretty much during the last chapter of Raw. There will also be various flashbacks, which will be flagged in the chapter titles.
> 
> Plot by kirin and XBelladonnaX (eternal thanks, dear! <3)  
> Text: kirin  
> Beta reader: [XBelladonnaX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XBelladonnaX/pseuds/XBelladonnaX)
> 
> +++
> 
> Many thanks go to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile), who translated this story from German to English! Thank you so much! <3

"John?"

The voice penetrated John's consciousness as if through a thick fog. He was sitting barefoot in his armchair in front of the cold hearth in 221B, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his chin propped on the palm of his hand. He looked up wearily to see the blurry outline of a figure leaning toward him. He wiped his eyes with his left hand, only vaguely registering the damp trail left on the back of his hand.

Greg crouched down in front of him, sighed, and reached for John's hand, squeezing it gently in a futile attempt to give him some comfort. The dull emptiness inside John prevented him from reacting to the touch in any manner. He stared absently at the fingers stroking the back of his thumb. Warm and callused. The faint scent of nicotine hit his nose, betraying the fact that Greg must have had a smoke a short time earlier. Something he rarely did anymore. Only when he was nervous, overwhelmed, or out of ideas. Right then, he might have been all three.

Greg had texted John every day to keep him informed of the progress on the search, but he hadn't been able to tell him anything more than which section of the Thames they'd covered, and the inevitable "no luck". They'd only seen each other once since Sherlock's fall from Southwark Bridge. That had been more or less a coincidence, when Greg had gone to see Victor Trevor at the hospital in order to ask him some question about what had happened at the Rose Playhouse, and John had happened on them when he'd come for his daily visit.

Victor had paused in his remarks and looked over at John, unwilling to continue discussing the matter. Resigned, Greg had slipped his notes into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a calling card, which he'd handed to Victor. Then he'd turned to John.

"The thing with Moran's been settled. They're calling it self-defence. Mycroft Holmes was able to give us some information that confirmed Moran's connection to Moriarty, and along with Trevor's statement that should wrap up that part of the investigation. As to... the rest... well, we're still looking," Greg had explained. The oppressive silence in the room had quickly become unbearable, and Greg had cleared his throat briefly and said his good-byes.

"John... is there anything I can do for you?" he asked now, still attempting to keep John's focus on him for more than a couple of seconds. It hurt to see his friend so completely beside himself. His helplessness and clumsiness paralysed him, making it clear time and again how much John missed Sherlock.

"No," John said. "Just... leave me be." He stood up heavily and turned to go into the kitchen. But Greg reached instinctively for his wrist, pulled him back, and put his arms around him. John let it happen as if in a daze. The other man's familiar smell and body heat surrounded him, but were only able to scratch at the surface of his consciousness. He hung lifelessly in the embrace, barely able to keep himself on his feet.

"I'm so awfully sorry about all of this... John... please... let me do something... I can't stand seeing you like this." A whisper, close to John's ear. Silence. Impotence reflected in those few syllables. There was nothing to be done. Everything the Yard had the power to do was already being done, and beyond that there was only a tiny spark of hope which John harboured deep inside, well aware that the reality looked quite different.

Nine days had passed since Sherlock's disappearance. Nine days in which Scotland Yard had searched the Thames and its banks, looking for Sherlock. The search perimeter had been expanded by now to include the surrounding areas which had been mentioned by potential witnesses. There were countless rumours that Sherlock had been sighted. And yet not a single clue had led to any new trail. The newspapers were full of reports on Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. Some of them were trying to make some connection between the criminal's complex schemes and some of the Yard's unsolved cases, even though that kind of speculation was really uncalled for.

Greg suspected that the only purpose of those articles was to increase the circulation of those tabloids. The other dailies were only making a half-hearted effort at checking sources, and often published the information they received unfiltered, or spun their own theories regarding the case. It simply wasn't possible for the Yard to do anything more than appeal to the publishers' conscience not to ruthlessly exploit the hype surrounding Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, that didn't help John and Mrs Hudson much, and they were constantly being laid siege to by reporters.

John had been given a leave of absence from his position as a general medical practitioner at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, but even so, his co-workers – including Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper – were stopped not infrequently by pushy reporters scrounging around for sound bytes about the missing detective, presumed dead. Everyone's nerves were on edge.

John pushed the Detective Inspector away, somewhat more harshly than intended, at the same time avoiding his gaze. He sighed and shook his head, eventually turning away and leaving Greg standing there. He went through the kitchen, down the hall, and into Sherlock's bedroom, where he quietly closed the door and took a deep breath.

The air in this room was different than in the rest of the flat. It hung thick and heavy between the walls, pregnant with an amalgam of smells. It was almost as if Sherlock were still there, as if his presence hadn't vanished entirely. John listened to Greg's footsteps receding, the click of the outer door to the flat closing.

John's chest clenched painfully, squeezing the air out of his lungs and rattling at the barrier behind which he had boarded up the tears he didn't want to – couldn't – cry. His body refused to give them up. To let them go. It was as if in doing so, he would be giving up the last bit of hope and facing the knowledge that Sherlock was dead. Although John was realistic enough to realise that that conclusion was the only logical one.

Sherlock's suit jacket – with a bullet hole in the front at chest height but no exit hole – indicated that the bullet must have remained lodged in his body. The impact with the surface of the water following an uncontrolled fall would most likely have led to a loss of consciousness. And since he hadn't been found immediately – which John could not explain for the life of him – it could only be assumed that he'd bled to death or drowned.

They'd only found James Moriarty's body, three days later. Mycroft had personally come to 221B Baker Street in order to inform John. The crime lord's body had got caught on something underwater downriver before the bloated remains had been washed up on the banks of the Thames. Due to technical aspects of the investigation, it wasn't possible for unauthorised individuals to inspect the body, but Mycroft had brought photographs to show John. He hadn't felt anything when he'd examined the images: Moriarty's black, motionless eyes staring unseeingly into the camera. Not even so much as a sense of justice had stirred within John.

Nothing more than that bottomless void.

Sherlock was still missing without a trace. The Thames had swallowed him up, like some monster from a nightmare.

And in fact, those were precisely the images that formed in John's head with increasing frequency. The rippling surface of the water, dense and viscous like an oil slick, by day and by night. Black fingers reaching for the bridges, probing blindly, seeking something. Jaws gaping open, peppered with sharp teeth, lurking hungrily. Strange shapes formed on the horizon. Humanoid and yet not human. Grey shadows wading through the city on emaciated legs, their absurdly long arms dangling down at their sides. Their heads disappearing in the clouds. Looking for something.

John sighed and buried his face in the pillow, taking deep breaths. In and out. Without even trying very hard, he fancied Sherlock's smell still permeated the sheets. Mixed with his own. A potpourri of memories, making his stomach tense and cramp. No, there was nothing left. All his imagination, a pipe dream, nostalgia. A desperate attempt to hold fast to that which was unrecoverable.

 _Get it together, Watson!_ a voice shouted inside him. It reminded him in a little of his time in Afghanistan. Strict, military, demanding of respect. Hammered into him over many years. An automatic reaction to guarantee his survival.

"All right, fine," he grumbled and flung the blanket aside, swinging his legs out of bed. The rug was soft under his feet. The floorboards underneath creaked loudly when he stood up and glanced at his phone screen. 5:13. No messages. Some things simply never changed. At least he'd slept for a couple of hours. Maybe three. The strange dreams weren't enticing enough to keep John for long.

He swiped across the screen and opened his calendar. Beneath the "sick day" notation, an appointment appeared at 10 o'clock. Release from hosp. That meant Victor was being released from the hospital where he'd spent the last fortnight recovering from the Christmas rose poisoning. Sebastian Moran's final attempt to hurt Sherlock in a way he wouldn't be able to recover from. No one had reckoned on John Watson's interference.

John avoided looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He already knew that exhaustion had drawn deep lines on his face and reddened his eyes, making him look drained and pasty. He got into the shower and turned the hot water on until the steam made it impossible for him to see so much as his hand in front of his face. Lost in thought, he felt the rivulets running down his back as he soaped up. After he'd showered, he gave in and looked at his reflection in the mirror in order to shave and clean his teeth. He consciously put the voices in his head on mute and proceeded efficiently, perhaps a little too briskly. But nothing that a couple of scraps of toilet paper couldn't handle.

After he'd dressed – jeans, t-shirt, red button-down – he went into the kitchen to put on some water to boil. With practised motions, he reached into the cupboards to take out the teacup, tin, and milk. While he waited for the water, he let his gaze wander around the kitchen. Hardly anything had changed. Sherlock's equipment still stood on the kitchen table. Petri dishes, Erlenmeyer flasks, pipettes. The valuable microscope. Dozens of used slides. A plate of biscuits covered in plastic wrap stood on the counter next to the stove. Mrs Hudson must have left them there last night sometime. John ignored them. He couldn't stand the thought of food.

He sat in front of the TV in the living room with his tea and watched a morning chat show. As was to be expected, the hosts started on the subject of Sherlock Holmes's disappearance after just a few minutes. John hesitated for a moment before taking a look at the superimposed photograph showing Sherlock in the deerstalker. A well-known image from the newspaper. The stream of chatter ended abruptly when John turned of the device and leaned back, sighing.

 

*****

 

It was around nine o'clock when John set out for the hospital. He felt eyes on him, and a quick turn of his head confirmed that he was being observed. He already knew the journalist who was following him. The only reason he hadn't approached John yet must have been because they'd had words just a few days earlier.

John had been furious, shoving the irritating man away hard enough to make him fall. That outburst had apparently been enough to keep him at arm's length for the most part. His weren't the only pair of eyes following John's every step, but he was calm enough today to filter out the constant attention focused on him. At least long enough for him to arrive at his destination.

He exchanged a few words with the security staff at the entrance to St Bartholomew's Hospital, asking for them to chase off any representatives of the media. Then he went straight up to Victor's room.

As expected, Victor was already in the middle of packing up his few personal items. He had slipped into his ripped jeans and was just pulling a white t-shirt over his head when John came in.

"Morning," John greeted him briefly as he approached.

Victor turned toward John and returned the salutation half-heartedly. John couldn't help noticing all the bruises on Victor's arms. Without waiting for an invitation, he grabbed Victor's wrist and turned his arm over to get a better look at the mess left by all of the IVs over the past few days.

"Looks like they let the trainees practice on me," Victor commented dryly, removing his arm from John's grip so he could run his hand through his hair and get it into some semblance of order. John only grunted his agreement and picked up the clipboard with the patient's medical chart on it which was attached to the foot of the bed. He quickly scanned it before returning it to its hook. He felt Victor's eyes searching him when he spoke again.

"How are you feeling today?"

"I'll be glad to finally get out of here. The food is quite unbearable."

"It's a hospital, not a Michelin star restaurant," John said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"You don't say? That explains why the service is so poor," Victor retorted disparagingly.

"Let's go. We can pick up the release papers at the information desk."

John held the door open so Victor could walk out with his bag. Together, they went to the aforementioned desk, where an orderly had already assembled the needed documents, which he handed to Victor. Victor thanked him briefly and stuffed them in his bag.

Outside the hospital, they got into a taxi, sliding onto the back seat with the bag between them. Victor gave his address.

It was a sunny day. There were lots of people strolling through the streets, enjoying the beautiful weather. John watched them. A little voice in the back of his head asked when he would ever again be able to enjoy a day like this – or any day at all, for that matter. Whether there would ever be anything like carefreeness in his life again.

"Thanks."

John turned toward Victor, disturbed from his musings.

"For picking me up. For checking on me the last few days... for everything," Victor said without looking at John. Instead, he stared out the window.

John didn't know whether he should say anything in response. He still couldn't quite explain why he'd thought it necessary not to let Victor out of his sight. Maybe it was his instinct as a doctor. Victor had become his patient, in a certain way, the moment he'd found him on the stage at the Rose Playhouse and called for help. He felt responsible for him. Wanted to be sure Victor came out of this whole thing in one piece.

When a loud stomach rumble sounded, John couldn't help grinning. "Hungry?"

 

******

 

They decided to make a quick pit stop along the way to have something to eat. John still doubted he'd be able to get anything down, but he wanted to give it a go at least. They stopped near a place selling fish and chips, got a corner seat, and each ordered a serving with a drink.

John stared down at the table, his arms crossed. The heavy scent of chip fat and vinegar hovered in the air. Scraps of conversation from the neighbouring table floated over to them, but John wasn't paying attention. It felt utterly surreal to be sitting there with Victor. Victor, of all people. The man he'd seen as his rival for weeks. They had nothing in common. Nothing but Sherlock. They were two completely different people with completely different personalities and perspectives, and yet fate had brought them together at this table.

Well, it would probably be the last time they saw each other. What did it matter?

There was one thing that John wanted to know, though; not that it was important or would have changed anything about the situation... but just in case they never saw each other again, this might be his last chance to ask. John looked up only to find Victor had been watching him carefully. Did Victor also have a talent for reading people? Could he tell that John hadn't eaten for the past two days based on the wrinkles in his shirt? John moistened his lips and cleared his throat. No, that was ridiculous. There weren't many people who had such a pronounced gift for observation as the Holmes brothers. Knowledge of human nature, yes; but John couldn't guess how good Victor was in that area. It wasn't really important in the end.

"I'd... quite like to know how you met Sherlock," John finally said, his eyes fixed on the plastic bottle filled with ketchup that stood in the middle of the table.

"Why?" Victor asked, a trace of defiance in his voice.

John just looked at him and shrugged. He didn't know what to answer. _You may be the only person who truly knew Sherlock..._ Pain zapped through John's cheek when he bit the inside. It was unpleasant for him to admit that Victor knew more about Sherlock than he did. That was a weak point for him, a vulnerability. He wanted to fill the gaps in Sherlock's life story, the ones he'd never been able to talk to him about. All the anecdotes from his childhood and teenage years, the little secrets and the course of his personality development. John couldn't really guess how much Victor knew about all that, of course, but every bit of information had the potential to reveal a piece of Sherlock that John didn't know.

They sat there in silence for a long while. Two plates filled with breaded fish and chips were brought to the table.

"I miss him," John said then, so softly that it was hard to hear. Maybe the words weren't even directed at Victor. Maybe they were only intended to give voice to the obvious. Maybe John himself hadn't even realised he'd spoken them out loud.

Victor picked up one of the potato slices between his thumb and index finger, dragged it through the ketchup, and slid it into his mouth pensively.

"All right... I'll tell you how I met Sherlock."

 

+++

 

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Southwark Bridge and Rose Playhouse, London](http://kirincalls.tumblr.com/post/142893827270/southwark-bridge-london)


	2. October 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief detour to the past...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3
> 
> +++
> 
> Sorry for not posting on Wednesday! Stressful week...

Summer was over. The temperatures were steadily falling, and the green of the leaves had long since faded to make way for the red and yellow of autumn. The year was coming to a close for many, and yet for others, it only seemed to be starting. The university campus was teeming with first-year students, overwhelmed by the impressions and upcoming challenges they faced.

Victor sipped at his water bottle, bored, as he let his gaze sweep across the crowd that populated the university grounds during orientation week like a swarm of locusts. He'd actually only wanted to enjoy his afternoon off and read a few pages while he sat beneath the chestnut tree near the entrance to the natural sciences building, soaking up the last few warm rays of the sun. But all these youngsters kept coming up to him, asking things: _Where can I find Department XY, where are the loos, which way to this or that College?_ Did he look like a bloody information stand? It was almost more than he could take.

A young woman had just approached, wanting to know the way to the offices of the Department of Biology. She brushed her hair back off her forehead with a shy smile, her expression and the touch of pink in her cheeks revealing that she wouldn't mind chatting with Victor for a bit longer. He snapped his book shut, stood up, and brushed the dried grass from his trousers.

"Come on, I'll show you..." he said, using the book in his hand to gesture toward the building on his right. After all, he didn't want anyone to say he'd abandoned an attractive young damsel in distress.

The happy gleam in her eyes was promising, and a little social networking never hurt anyone. But they hadn't taken more than a couple of steps before Victor regretted his generosity. The young woman had apparently decided to take advantage of his attention to pour her heart out to him over the pluses and minuses of her college. Things that Victor was no stranger to. The campus was fairly old, and so were the residence halls; the heating rarely worked, and things were constantly breaking. Of course, no one felt responsible for making repairs, so you had to either take care of things yourself or simply accept the situation. Most students tended toward the latter course.

Victor had been living in one of the halls for the last two years as well, since he couldn't afford his own place and it was extremely difficult to find an affordable flat share. They were usually more expensive than the student houses anyway. One disadvantage of on-campus accommodations was that the rooms were often let as doubles. Whether the purpose was to make the residence halls as unattractive as possible and thus stimulate the city housing market, or to double the university's income from rentals, was a hot topic of debate. Fortunately, Victor had snagged one of the coveted single rooms after his first year.

Victor filtered out the other student's chatter, crossing the halls with long strides so as to get rid of his baggage as quickly as possible. When he'd deposited her in front of the requested office, he lifted his hand to say good-bye and turned around without reacting to her words of thanks or accepting the slip of paper with her phone number.

Since he was there anyway, he might as well drop by the Department of Chemistry and check the inscription lists to see which laboratory he was supposed to show up at the next day. He briskly rounded the corner, only to see from afar that there was a group of students already gathered in front of the bulletin board where the lists were hung. His eye landed on a young man he knew. He was the flatmate of Abigail, a good friend of his who had to start all over again this semester after switching majors.

Distracted by the broad smile, Victor couldn't avoid the door that suddenly opened right in front of his face. The handle hit him hard on his lower arm.

"Ow! Bloody hell, watch it!"

The student exiting the office didn't even notice him, instead making a beeline for the bulletin board. Victor grumpily followed the slender figure. He had short, dark-brown hair and was wearing a ridiculous jumper: the yellow and brown horizontal stripes somehow reminded him of Charlie Brown from _Peanuts_. Victor was just barely able to hold off the urge to shove the impertinent idiot to the ground right there in front of the others. Instead, he elbowed his way in front of him, blocking his view of the lists. But the kid wasn't put off by that in the least, placing one hand on Victor's bicep and simply moving him aside.

"May I?"

"Do you mind?!" Victor growled, but it seemed to be completely impossible to get the bloke's attention. Fine. Obviously someone knew how to make himself unpopular. Grinding his teeth, Victor observed him from the side, determined to memorise his face and get his own back at the next opportunity.

The Charlie Brown character had an straight nose, above which his forehead was creased in thought. His lips were pressed together discontentedly, as if he didn't like what he was reading, or perhaps he found being in the midst of so many people unpleasant. His pronounced cheekbones and hyper-focused gaze lent his face an unusual air. Before Victor could tell what colour his eyes were, Charlie Brown turned away and made his way back through the crowd.

So he was reading Chemistry. Just let him try to get information out of the upperclassmen! Victor testily watched him go.

 

******

 

A few weeks later, Victor was walking with Abigail and Tom – her roommate – from the natural sciences quad toward the cafeteria when he saw the headstrong student for the second time. From one moment to the next, he noticed a figure beneath his favourite chestnut tree. He was clearly going to have to fight for the spot in future. He let out a disaffected grunt, which Abigail took to be a reaction to whatever it was she'd just said. She laughed, clutching at Victor's arm, and cuddled up to him.

They bought themselves some fizzy drinks and looked around for somewhere to sit. Since their usual spot underneath the chestnut tree was already taken, they spread out on the lawn across the way and continued their discussion. Curious, Victor observed the other student. He was wearing that awful jumper again and had his attention on something elsewhere. Victor followed his gaze and found a lecturer standing in front of a statue with three of Abigail's classmates, talking animatedly with them. Victor couldn't tell from that distance whether he was explaining who the statue was of, or whether their conversation was on another topic entirely. He could also do little more than guess which of the individuals had caught Charlie Brown's attention.

At the same time, the lecturer seemed vaguely familiar to him.

"Hey, Abby, isn't that one of your lecturers?" he asked, nodding toward the small group.

Abigail made a questioning noise and turned around. "Oh yes, that's Ryan Walters... he's a visiting professor, something about Japanese literature. He's awfully popular... but who can blame them?" She tittered, biting her bottom lip meaningfully as her eyes wandered over the professor.

Victor lifted an eyebrow and took a closer look at the man. Walters seemed quite young to be a professor. His short, black hair was neatly styled, and his nose was decorated with a pair of delicate, silver-rimmed glasses. His dark grey suit was tailor-made, its single colour accent an emerald green tie.

"Hmm..." Victor mused, his eyes flicking back and forth between Walters and Charlie Brown. It took an insistent nudge from Abigail for him to return his attention to his friends.

"Oh, come on, Victor! Don't tell me he plays for the other team! You can't do that to the ladies!"

"How should I know that? But if he does, it should be rather simple to find out..." Victor said, winking at the others.

 

*****

 

Sherlock sighed in exasperation as he scanned the print-outs. Since the university's laboratories were relatively small and in high demand, students had to get together in groups to do their weekly projects. Afterwards, each person had to turn in a report summarising and interpreting the results.

If Sherlock had had complete freedom, he could have finished all of the research within a single week. The other students would just slow him down and in the worst case, fake the results. What was the point of giving assignments like that to a group? The others in the course were obviously idiots who didn't have the first idea about chemistry and would need to study the basics first. Sherlock couldn't understand why he had to take an introductory course anyway. Ridiculous bureaucracy.

The students in his course had been split into groups of three, but fortunately, Sherlock had ended up in the odd group out with two members. Maybe fate was on his side after all, and he could convince the other person to let him do all the work and not interfere. Then the partner he'd had forced on him could go to parties like the other students and let Sherlock carry out his experiments in peace. Sherlock really couldn't care less whether this Tom simply copied his results in the end or not.

Sherlock had found out quickly who Tom was. An athletic youth with strawberry blond hair and loads of freckles, he was quite a bit shorter than Sherlock, but his shoulders were at least twice as broad. He obviously spent more time hitting the gym than the books. The reason might be his latent insecurity, which he tried to conceal – unsuccessfully. At least according to Sherlock. He couldn't help noticing the way the other young man constantly chewed his nails, nor his excessive nervousness when apparently stronger men passed by him. Sherlock assumed Tom had had some bad experiences with bullying at school. Which presumably had to do with his ginger hair – even though Sherlock couldn't understand rejecting someone based on a certain hair colour. Or else it was because he was gay.

Now if that wasn't a coincidence...

Tom lived in a flat share not far from the university. He apparently wasn't afraid of Sherlock – who was taller but quite a bit less powerfully built than he was. He readily gave Sherlock his address and phone number. Sherlock grudgingly agreed to meet him to set up the first experiment and even to pick Tom up at his house, since he didn't have a car. Sherlock had inherited the second-hand white Ford Cortina from his brother Mycroft, who had been issued a company car by now and no longer needed to rely on the old jalopy. Sherlock blatantly ignored the fact that Mycroft had intended the gift as a hint to visit the family more frequently.

Sherlock pulled up in front of the yellowstone house on the agreed-upon afternoon and got out of the car. Dusk was already falling, and it would be pitch dark by the time they were back on campus. But students had no say in which laboratory times they were assigned. Several names were on the buzzer – as was to be expected for a student flat share. Sherlock pressed the button and waited. No one answered. He glanced at his watch in annoyance. The time was correct. Of course he had to get a reliable lab partner... He rang again. This time, the intercom crackled and hissed.

"Hello?" a female voice inquired.

"Holmes."

There was a buzzing sound, and Sherlock pushed against the door to enter the building. He walked up to the fourth floor and waited. He almost thought they'd forgot about him on his way up, but then someone finally took pity and opened the door to the flat. A young woman with long brown hair and alert grey eyes stood in the doorway. She tugged at the cotton shift she'd just thrown on. One strap of her bra had slipped down her shoulder and rested in the crook of her elbow.

It was obviously a bad time.

"Sorry, I'm... er... you're William, right?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock? Oh... but you are Tom's lab partner, aren't you?" she asked, moving to one side so Sherlock could come in.

"Yes. I go by Sherlock," he explained and looked around the narrow hallway. Piles of shoes lay willy-nilly in front of the overstuffed closet. Based on their sizes, they belonged to at least two men, and... well, the rest of the shoes seemed to belong to the young woman.

Sherlock followed her into the living room. An old tube television stood next to a worn sectional sofa and a coffee table overflowing with bottles and half-eaten snack packets. A movie was playing on the telly but the sound had been turned off. The flickering screen was the only light source in the room.

Across from the sofa was an open passageway to the kitchen, in the middle of which stood a table – also covered with junk – and a single folding chair. More folded-up chairs leaned against the wall. Several articles of clothing lay randomly strewn across the floor.

"Have a seat here on the couch. I'm sorry, but the light bulb's burnt out and no one's bought a replacement yet. I'll bring one back if I think of it. I need to be getting to work. I'll let Tom know you're here. He... erm... must not have heard the bell," she said with an embarrassed smile. "Oh, my name's Abigail, by the way," she added and rushed out of the room.

Abigail was obviously Tom's flatmate.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and was very nearly swallowed up in the too-soft cushions. The piece had seen better days. It didn't take a genius to see that the residents of this household had inherited it from the previous tenant or otherwise received it as a gift. Or nicked it from a tip. All of the furnishings appeared to consist of items rescued from the dump or well-meant presents that no one else had wanted.

Sherlock shifted on the couch uncertainly, trying without success to find a comfortable position. But no matter how he twisted or turned, there was always a spring poking uncomfortably into his thigh or arse. He started when he suddenly heard a sound coming from the kitchen. Distracted by his attempt to make use of the sofa's original function, he hadn't heard the other person coming. There must be another entrance to the kitchen.

Sherlock moved to get up and froze. Diffuse light from the open refrigerator illuminated the figure of a man standing in the kitchen, greedily drinking water from a bottle. He was entirely naked. He apparently hadn't noticed Sherlock yet. Or didn't care that he was there. _Unlikely_ , Sherlock thought. His eyes wandered down the man's body of their own accord, following its edges and curves, the plays of light and shadow. Sweat gleamed dully on his skin. His shoulder-length blond hair was tousled, and a few strands were stuck to his forehead. He was fairly vibrating with energy. _Sex_ : the word shot through Sherlock's mind. That's what a man who just had sex looked like.

Audibly sucking in a breath, the stranger lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with his free hand. Just then, their eyes met. Sherlock flinched internally. He should have said something, should have made his presence known or at least averted his eyes... anything. But it was too late now. The other man's gaze bored into him, and he couldn't look away. Sherlock watched as if paralysed as the man set the bottle down, leaned over to the pile of clothes on the floor, and picked them up. He casually pulled on a pair of jeans, drawing them up over his hips, and slowly buttoned up the flies. His eyes fixed on Sherlock the entire time. A faint smile played at his lips, breaking the spell under which Sherlock seemed to be caught.

Sherlock lowered his head and focused on his hands in his lap. He tried to regulate his heartbeat, which had increased without him realising it, by taking measured breaths. He heard the sound of bare feet on linoleum and listened as the other man walked away.

"Sherlock!" A voice rang out in the corridor, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps. Sherlock jumped up and moved clumsily to the entryway.

Tom had obviously got ready in a hurry. He stepped out of the bathroom, trying to get his ginger hair in some semblance of order as he tugged on his jacket and finally slipped on his shoes.

"Sorry you had to wait. I was sleeping and didn't hear the bell!" Tom lied, stepping past his lab partner to go out into the stairway.

 _Sleeping... yeah, right..._ Sherlock thought to himself and followed.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kitchen scene is based on the film "A Friend of Mine."
> 
> The [Ford Cortina and Sherlock with short hair in his Charlie Brown jumper](http://kirincalls.tumblr.com/post/143258991510/bw) (in black-and-white because the jumper had different colours in real life :D).


	3. November 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

"I told you he was here," Abigail said, nodding toward the young man sitting in the last row of the lecture hall by the window, trying in vain to melt into the background.

"Hmm..." Victor said from his spot beside her. They'd taken seats fairly far back on the left, where they had a good view of the others. In fact, as Abigail had said, the lecture was being attended almost entirely by female students who had probably never seen a text written by a Japanese hand in their life.

Nonetheless, Ryan Walters, the visiting professor from America, had the undivided attention of every single person present. Abigail, who recognised Sherlock as being her flatmate's lab partner, knew that he actually had no business attending the literature lecture. He wouldn't get any credits for the course, which must mean he was here purely for personal reasons. Of course, it might well be that Sherlock was honestly interested in East Asian poetry, but Abigail had a good eye for men who were mainly interested in members of the same sex.

When she'd told Victor about their visitor from the natural sciences, his ears had suddenly pricked up. Abigail assumed that Ryan had caught Victor's eye as well, and he wanted to keep tabs on a potential rival. To be sure, Victor and Tom were together – if you trusted Tom's definition – but Abigail had known since they were in school together that Victor thought very little of the notion of faithfulness in a relationship and wouldn't let that stop him if a new man landed in his crosshairs.

She herself had experienced that first-hand; she'd met Victor through her first boyfriend – who had become her first ex-boyfriend a short while later. Abigail had gone to Victor in a mad fury back then and slapped him across the face. But once he'd made it clear to her that her ex wouldn't have cheated on her if he'd really loved her, they'd become friends surprisingly quickly. She'd never quite been able to explain why she'd taken to such an impertinent character so fast and could no longer imagine her life without him.

Victor was... different. He was brazen and pushy and very forthright when he wanted something. He also appreciated it when someone put their foot down and didn't let him walk all over them. He was unconditionally reliable – as long as there was no emotional dependency involved.

Victor basically didn't seem to care about the feelings of people who fell in love with him. And that was usually the beginning of the end. Abigail couldn't say whether Victor had ever opened his heart up to anyone, but she doubted it. She also doubted that the thing with Tom was going to end well. She'd wisely foregone giving any sage advice; sticking one's nose into someone else's relationship usually led more often to arguments than to gestures of gratitude.

Walters was just finishing up his monologue on Matsuo Bashō, a prominent haiku poet of the 17th century. He was explaining that these short poems were known around the world today, but they lost a lot in translation. The melody alone as rendered by the Japanese syllabary wasn't transferable to any other language. As an example, he recited a haiku in Japanese on the topic of cicadas. By extending the pronunciation of each syllable and adding a slight scraping sound to his voice, imitating the insects' characteristic chirping. An idiosyncrasy that was lost in the English translation.

Victor couldn't quite suppress the low chuckle that inadvertently burbled up in his throat. Maybe it was because he didn't understand a single word of Japanese, while everyone else was hanging on Walters' every word even though the attractive, cosmopolitan lecturer looked utterly ridiculous. A sharp elbow hit Victor in the side, and several heads turned toward him. Even Sherlock sent a scathing look his way. Victor just shrugged his shoulders, unconcerned.

Now bored, Victor let his head loll back, twisting it slightly to the right so he could study Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He was listening attentively to the rest of the remarks on haiku, and even taking notes. Maybe, Victor mused, he really did want to find out something about the topic and not about the professor. On second thought, no: that dreamy gaze, the unconscious chewing on his pencil... it wasn't hard to see that Sherlock had an obvious interest in the man.

He was keeping his cards close to his chest – or at least, Tom hadn't noticed anything along those lines even though he saw Sherlock in the lab every day – but the curiosity was practically written across his face whenever an interesting man crossed his path. Victor was still annoyed about the first time he'd run into Sherlock, and Sherlock's blatant ignorance of him. If he were being honest, the fact that Sherlock didn't seem to so much as register his presence – despite the unexpected meeting at Tom's house – really ate at him. He plain and simply wasn't used to being completely disregarded.

But perhaps that's what made Sherlock so interesting. That and the fact that he didn't seem to make friends anywhere. Any comments made about him tended to be negative. Arrogance and vanity were often mentioned, even if the latter referred mainly to his results in school and not to his outward appearance. Sherlock was still walking around in the most outlandish outfits, as if he were consciously rebelling against a style that would suit him better.

Tom had also said something along the lines of Sherlock having clairvoyant abilities. With a single look, he was able to tell not only what the other person had done that day but also things that had never been mentioned in public. Tom meant his family, which he hadn't even told Victor much about. Yet Sherlock seemed to have known that domestic violence had been a frequent occurrence in Tom's home. That his father had moved out for a while, only to eventually return so as not to leave his son alone with a volatile woman who had attacked her husband with a blunt instrument, sending him to the hospital. A situation which not even the doctor who treated him had ever heard of.

Victor could well remember how Tom had come to him that evening after Sherlock had blurted out the facts right in front of him, uninvited. He'd been as white as a sheet, unable to understand where Sherlock had got all his information from. Tom had knocked Sherlock to the ground in a panic and threatened him if he ever told anyone about it. The scrape was still visible on the young man's high cheekbone.

"We'll continue from here next week. Please read the various translations of Bashō's poems on pages twenty-five to forty so that we can begin with the comparisons next time." Walters ended the lecture with that, and the students jumped up from their seats and lined up down the narrow central aisle to get to the door. A couple of female students were still asking the professor questions as the hall slowly emptied.

"I need to hurry, my next class is about to start," Abigail said, pressing a kiss onto Victor's cheek as a good-bye. Without making a show of it, she climbed over her desk and the next row of chairs to get past the others and slipped out the door. Victor watched her go, then looked over at Sherlock, who didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. His hands were tightly clenched around the page he'd been writing on. His eyes darted nervously back and forth from Walters to the line of students, which was becoming shorter by the minute.

 _Oh, so that's his game_ , Victor thought to himself, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. When he saw Sherlock finally get up to go to the front and turn in his sheet, Victor quickly scribbled something on a piece of paper, stood up, and darted past Sherlock to get in front of him in the line. The last of the other students was just leaving when Walters looked up at Victor inquisitively.

"You're not registered for this course, are you?" the lecturer said, but there was more curiosity than accusation in his voice.

"Guilty as charged," Victor replied with a shrug. He noticed Sherlock stopping a few metres away and digging in his bag as if looking for something. "I've heard a lot about you. But as I don't put much faith in other people's gossip, I wanted to see for myself whether you're really as hot as they all say."

There was dead silence in the room. Walters' eyes flicked nervously back and forth between the two students before he chuckled briefly.

"Oh? Is that what they're saying? I'm flattered," he replied evasively and put his papers into a leather briefcase.

Victor moistened his lips as he stepped closer to the other man, leaning on the desk with his right hand. He made a sound of agreement. "Yeah, you should hear them... wouldn't surprise me if they start a fan club in your honour pretty soon." Victor held out a folded slip of paper toward the professor and smiled at him provocatively. "Maybe I'll drop in again to hear you speak. I liked the cicadas," he said and turned around to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock walk past the desk without doing whatever it was he'd planned, his face wiped clean of any emotion.

No one would have noticed that Walters had slipped the folded-up note into his pocket with a casual gesture. No one but Sherlock. As intended.

 

*****

 

Sherlock sighed as he dropped his backpack and leaned back against the broad trunk of the chestnut tree in front of the natural sciences building. He tugged at the zip on his jacket to catch some of the cool autumn breeze. His heart was still racing in his chest. Anger and shame jockeying for first place. Useless emotions, wholly inappropriate in his estimation. It had taken him days to muster the courage needed to take the next step. To allow Ryan Walters a brief glimpse inside him. And now this.

That oddball... Tom's "friend" … had intervened, stolen the show and with it any chance of Sherlock succeeding. What did he think he was doing? Wasn't one man enough for Victor Trevor? As if it weren't hard enough to find a halfway intelligent person who piqued Sherlock's interest. A shiver ran down his spine when he recalled the friendly way Walters had looked at him a couple of days ago. Unlike Victor, Sherlock had been possessed of the decency to ask whether he could attend the lectures, even though they weren't on his programme of studies.

And Walters had been pleased about his interest. The warm feeling of budding hope had sweetened every day since for Sherlock, providing him with all sorts of mad fantasies until far into the night... ones he wouldn't normally have indulged in. Sherlock despised all that fuss people made when they fell in love. It frustrated him that he couldn't defend himself against it. That he couldn't just cut off the gnawing and yearning inside him and destroy it. Dissect and analyse it, without emotion, like an insect under a microscope.

It seemed inescapable, sneaking into his dreams, even during the day, distracting him, causing him to make mistakes. Sherlock didn't recognise himself anymore. He'd finally decided his transport wasn't going to give him any peace until he'd accepted the new challenge and conquered it. And now Victor had thrown obstacles in his path. On purpose! It was maddening.

"You're much too tentative," a voice said next to Sherlock.

Sherlock started, not having heard anyone coming. Victor peered around the tree trunk and grinned cheekily. Sherlock would have loved to lash out, wipe the smirk from his face, and make Walters see how stupid it was to fall in with someone like _that_.

Victor leaned his lower arm against the tree, the other hand resting on his hip. An unspoken challenge hovered in the air between them. But Sherlock wouldn't let himself be intimidated, and adamantly stood his ground. Of course he knew Victor had claimed this spot for himself, in a manner of speaking, as his own personal place to sit. He also knew that Victor assumed Sherlock hadn't noticed him. The guy's ego had to be enormous if he simply couldn't imagine that anyone might not be interested in him.

"You're Tom's boyfriend," Sherlock announced with as much arrogance in his voice as he could muster. As if that statement meant that nothing more needed to be said.

"Something like that, yes," Victor said, grinning again.

Sherlock snorted and turned away so that he didn't have to suffer that grotesque expression any longer. "What... do you want with _him_ then?"

"Nothing. But seeing your gormless expression was worth it!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, only to close it again and cross his arms defensively over his chest. Why should he give Victor the satisfaction of putting his hurt feelings on display?

"You could have him easily, if you wanted," Victor said, now switching over to a conciliatory tone. "A little more self-confidence and the guts to make a move, and he won't be able to walk past you without wanting to tear your clothes off."

Sherlock cursed silently at the touch of pink that rose to his cheeks at those words. The low chuckle that followed was like being pricked with pins and needles. He whipped around crossly, barely suppressing the anger in his voice.

"And how am I supposed to...?!" he barked, then fell silent when two lips landed on his. He froze completely, only realising at the edge of his awareness that he was being kissed. In the middle of campus. By a man. By his lab partner's boyfriend. Just like that.

"… you kissed me," Sherlock babbled when Victor pulled away from him.

"You're a proper genius," Victor replied from barely two centimetres away, mimicking condescension.

"That... that was... that was my... first kiss," Sherlock confessed, unable to believe what he was saying.

Victor's expression of surprise was accompanied by a hint of satisfaction, but it was completely lost in the wave of emotional chaos that washed over Sherlock.

"You're not serious..." Victor said. He managed to grab Sherlock's wrist before he could take flight in panic. Utter confusion was reflected on Sherlock's face, making Victor swallow thickly. The realisation that a complete innocent was hiding underneath the young man's arrogant shell made him feel horribly guilty all of a sudden. It also awakened a sudden interest in him that he hadn't reckoned with.

He let go of Sherlock and cleared his throat, trying to get control over his burgeoning desire and hold back the flood of ideas that were clamouring for his attention. Images of Sherlock writhing underneath him, mindlessly surrendering himself, completely overwhelmed by all of the... Sherlock's disturbed expression brought Victor crashing back down to earth. _He can't really read minds, can he?_

"Sorry," he said quickly, not sure whether he was apologising for the spontaneous kiss or his fantasies.

"It's... fine..." Sherlock said hesitantly, crossing his arms as if he didn't know what else to do with his hands. "Just forget about it." He turned around and walked away, sensing Victor's eyes on his back.

 

+++

 

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anymore whether the poem mentioned was a haiku or a tanka, much less who wrote it – but if I ever find it again, I'll edit in the information. ^^  
> [Cicadas chirping](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_OemTaXaps)


	4. Sunday, 22.07.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John absentmindedly stuffed his collapsible umbrella into the pocket of his black jacket. He was listening to the weather forecast on the news with half an ear. Bright sunshine, not a cloud in the sky, 24 degrees Celsius, no chance of rain, and yet... he had the feeling he'd be needing the umbrella today.

After all, it always rained at the funerals of important people, didn't it? He just wanted to be prepared. Nothing would be worse (aside from the obvious) than standing by the grave, soaked to the skin and shivering. Possibly hoping the eulogy would be finished soon so that he could get inside where it was dry. What kind of farewell would that be?

No, the deceased deserved all due respect. After all, he'd been an important man. Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate. His best friend. His... John swallowed hard. His lover.

Over the past few days and weeks, John had relived over and over in his mind's eye how Sherlock and James Moriarty had fought on Southwark Bridge. The way he'd finally seized that miserable puppet master and string-puller by the collar and dragged him over the railing. The way the two of them had disappeared in the black waters of the Thames. Sherlock had given his life to free the world of the evil that called itself James Moriarty. Regardless of the losses.

And he'd left John behind.

The empty teacup clattered when John slammed his hand down angrily on the desk. It took a concerted effort for him to push down the burgeoning fury inside him. As had been the case so often recently. Incomprehension, rage, grief, despair.... that's all he was left with. His gaze wandered disconsolately through the living room where he and Sherlock had spent so much time together.

Dust particles floated sluggishly through the air, catching the light and dancing idly toward the floor. Sherlock hadn't liked it when Mrs Hudson wanted to dust. The dust had given him clues as to what had gone on in the flat when he wasn't there. It had been Sherlock's unique way of keeping track of things. John laughed joylessly. How was he supposed to stick it out here on his own? He'd been sleeping in Sherlock's bed ever since the day Sherlock had fallen from the bridge. The bed they'd only shared for a few days.

His friend's smell had already been supplanted by John's; disappeared into thin air. Irretrievably. All the little things that reminded him of Sherlock seemed to be fading, slipping between John's fingers like fine-grained sand. Leaving nothing but memories behind. Memories of all the many hours they'd spent together. In friendship and in disagreement. The period during which they'd come closer and allowed the romantic side of their relationship to play out had been much too short.

A glance at the clock reminded John that it was time. He switched off the radio and looked over at the Le Corbusier one more time as he usually did, trying to ignore the emptiness reflected in the armchair.

Mrs Hudson was already waiting down at the door for him. Quiet and withdrawn, as if she'd collapsed in on herself. Her eyes were swollen from all the tears, a fact which she hadn't been able to fully conceal with her make-up. She tried to smile when John came down the stairs. He would have liked to hug her, but held back. His own emotional framework was too fragile. He couldn't even force an encouraging smile onto his face. They left the house together and took a taxi to the cemetery, where they would need to say good-bye to the person who had left such a gaping hole in both of their lives.

 

*****

 

An odd sense of calm spread through John as he listened to the eulogy. The empty phrases coming out of the vicar's mouth didn't represent in the least what Sherlock had meant to John or any of his friends. John let his eyes wander across those who had gathered there. Greg looked crushed as he stared down at the black lacquer of Sherlock's coffin. He'd been avoiding John, giving him space, even though it was clearly difficult for him to do. His colleagues, Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson – neither of whom had particularly liked 'the freak' – were there too, with traces of disbelief and regret on their faces. Molly Hooper from St. Bartholomew Hospital's pathology department was crying bitterly into a tissue.

John didn't know most of the others. They were strangers, perhaps admirers of the world's only consulting detective; possibly even some clients that John didn't recognise. They had no business here. None of them had been invited, but the funeral had been big news in the papers. John hadn't had any say in that. It must have been the family's decision, and John wasn't one of them. The thought struck him more painfully than he wanted to admit. _Not here, not now... this isn't the right time!_ he told himself forcefully, tamping down all of the emotions that struggled to free themselves from deep down inside.

He was irritated to note that Sherlock's parents weren't there. The death of their youngest son must have hit them hard. Or had it? John couldn't say. The relationship between them and their sons seemed to be rather cool, but John could only go on what he'd picked up from Sherlock's rare mentions. Their absence indicated that the problems must run deeper than he'd thought.

At least Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, was there, even if John secretly wondered whether he was only making sure that Sherlock was really dead. John pursed his lips at the thought. Although he knew that Mycroft had always been concerned about his brother and wanted to protect him, the man's cold facade with his three-piece suit gave off an appearance of complete disinterest. His face looked like a porcelain mask, his features stiff and immobile. The apparent apathy might just be a protective mechanism, John thought, although he'd never seen Mycroft let himself go.

However, his detached expression on this day of all days made John wonder. Mycroft Holmes had never been very emotional, just like his late brother. John had only seen him get angry when Sherlock disrupted his plans – whether intentionally or not. Frustration seemed to be the only emotion that the Holmes brothers let show, in general. Now there was only one left. But Mycroft was so calm, so unapproachable...

Did he feel guilty? Responsible for the fact that his little brother had fallen victim to that villain? That he hadn't been able to act? Was he dealing with the consequences of his powerlessness? Was he able to sleep at night without drowning in his own guilt?

_I shouldn't project my own feelings onto Mycroft... he did what he could_... John reminded himself, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

John remembered quite well the first time he'd met Mycroft. As if he'd been cast in a bad thriller, the civil servant's mysterious assistant had nabbed John after he'd witnessed Mycroft's powers over the country's CCTV system. A ridiculous ploy to intimidate John and get him on Mycroft's side. And for what? Just to keep an eye on Sherlock! John shook his head. Their eyes met. As if Mycroft had sensed that John was thinking about him.

John frowned sceptically. He knew that Mycroft was at least as talented as Sherlock had been at reading people. They were like open maps to him. Every stain and every fold a clue, every untrue word revealed as a lie before even the speaker themselves realised it. It was downright spooky.

The thoughts faded when it was John's turn to toss a scoop of dirt onto the black coffin. His heart clenched painfully. He forcefully exhaled the air that seemed to be clinging to the insides of his lungs, refusing to let go as if all memory of his dead friend would slip out of his body along with it.

But it wouldn't. John would never forget those eyes, where he'd lost himself in the scintillating sea of colours more than once. The intensity with which Sherlock had looked at him, making all doubts melt away regarding his ability to love. Their profound friendship. John had watched with a sense of gratification as Sherlock had slowly learned to understand and appreciate the value of that friendship. He'd felt a combination of pride and sadness at the same time. Pride because it was almost like teaching a child something wonderful. Sadness because the thought that Sherlock had had so few friends in his life was so unspeakably painful.

Aside from John, Victor Trevor was probably one of the very few people Sherlock had opened up to. His relationship to his friend from his youth … his former lover … confidante... John still couldn't come up with an appropriate definition for their relationship, but it must have been extraordinary. The rational side of John's mind felt sorry for Victor, who must be suffering just as John was. But Victor hadn't come to the funeral either. Maybe he thought it was silly to stand in front of an empty coffin and celebrate an official farewell that could never fix the pain inside him. John could understand that all too well, even if he didn't approve of Victor's absence.

A hollow sound rang out when the handful of dirt from the scoop in John's hand hit the lid of the coffin.

 

******

 

John was just about to leave the cemetery when Mycroft approached him. He was almost amused to see that the civil servant had also thought to bring an umbrella, although there still wasn't a cloud in the sky.

"Mycroft," John greeted him as he made to walk past him.

"John... a word," Mycroft replied. John paused, turned on his heel, and met Mycroft's gaze head-on. There probably weren't a lot of people who did that, since whenever they met, an expression of delighted consternation appeared on Mycroft's face when John looked him straight in the eye. Even the first time they'd met, John hadn't hesitated to make clear to the other man that he was neither intimidating nor particularly formidable, despite the fact that he was obviously convinced of the authority of his position.

John was used to much different things. Some random civil servant who held God only knew what position in the British government didn't scare him a bit. Anyway, now that Sherlock wasn't around, John was of no use to him anymore, making him wonder what Mycroft wanted from him.

"I wanted to say good-bye." The statement was made in his usual friendly-neutral tone. One of his many masks that John couldn't see through. Somewhat discombobulated, John met Mycroft's eye, the unspoken question of 'why' hovering between them. A moment later, however, John realised what this all meant.

Of course. Now that Sherlock was dead, there was no reason for Mycroft to interfere in his life anymore. Until death do you part. Or something. The corners of John's mouth twitched at the hint of cynicism that slowly seeped out of his pores.

"We certainly won't be seeing much of each other anymore," Mycroft said as if to confirm John's thoughts, and held out his hand. It hung between them pallidly in the air. It took John a moment before he grasped it and gave it a half-hearted squeeze. He couldn't remember ever shaking Mycroft's hand before. It was strange, after knowing each other for so long.

"Yeah... right," John said vaguely. He didn't know what kind of reaction was appropriate. Of course, he had no intention of meeting Mycroft for tea on a regular basis in order to reminisce about the good old days. The notion was downright absurd. He should count himself lucky to no longer be in this man's crosshairs and be able to lead a halfway normal life again. Whatever that might mean.

"Do you know what you'll be doing now?" Mycroft asked. John couldn't say whether the question was grounded in genuine curiosity or calculated courtesy. He'd forgotten how to conduct small talk somewhat, after spending time with Sherlock. Yet it was bread and butter to the civil servant. Something he did in his sleep and had mastered in its most perfect form.

John stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His left hand barely had any room alongside his umbrella, so he took it out again and let it dangle awkwardly beside his hip. A sense of restlessness arose in him. He didn't want to think about the question. Didn't want to imagine returning to the empty flat and seeing all the things that would remind him of Sherlock. Above all, he didn't want to think about the looming threat of loneliness that was lurking mercilessly around the corner.

He shook his head, more in resignation than in reply, but Mycroft seemed to be satisfied by that.

"Of course, you're welcome to remain in Baker Street if you'd like. I'll pay Sherlock's share of the rent," Mycroft offered generously.

John shook his head again. "No. No, that's... no." John fell silent. He couldn't accept an offer like that. Mycroft had already taken care of the business with the courts, making sure that the demands for payment of the court costs that John had been assigned were withdrawn, following the cowardly attack on him by the members of _Smax_. Sherlock had contacted Mycroft without John's knowledge, and Mycroft had quickly discovered that Moriarty was behind the judgment. The whole affair had been nothing more than a setup. Another demonstration of Moriarty's power.

Mycroft nodded slowly, as if pondering something. "Fine. I'd still like to offer my assistance. If you should need anything at all, please let me know."

John nodded mutely. He couldn't think of anything he might need Mycroft's help with. Not even Mycroft Holmes had the power to bring Sherlock back to life.

They stood there in silence for a while before John gave himself a nudge, squared his shoulders, and turned around to leave the cemetery without saying good-bye.

 

+++

 

tbc

 


	5. Monday, 06.08.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

04:43 am

John tossed and turned in bed, kicked the blanket off, rolled from his left to his right side, but nothing helped quiet his mind and allow him to sleep. He was wide awake shortly before five. Just like every bloody morning. He would have liked to close his eyes again and get another couple of winks, but his body strictly denied him the wish.

Annoyed, John heaved himself up from the bed into a vertical position and threw the window wide open. Lush summer air streamed into the room, driving off the musty smell of night. John briskly stripped the covers off the duvet and pillow, tossed them onto the floor with the sheet, and remade the bed with fresh linens. Afterwards, he brought the dirty laundry down to the laundry room and stuffed it directly into the machine, put in the washing powder, and turned it on.

He bustled back up to the flat, where he went straight into the bathroom to relieve himself and shave. Then he had a long, thorough shower, scrubbing everywhere until his skin glowed red. He couldn't explain where this fierce energy came from, but anything was better than the lethargy that otherwise usually settled over him.

Three weeks had passed since the funeral. He'd found his way back into his old life. He'd resumed his position at St Bartholomew's Hospital – starting the day after the memorial service. He'd had to, otherwise he would have been climbing the walls. When he didn't have anything to do, his mind kept leaping to his dead friend, torturing him with images of their time together. He'd been offered a half-day position in order not to place too heavy a load on him. But John hadn't wanted any part in that. Just the opposite: he spent as much time as possible at the surgery, going through files and helping his colleagues when they were overwhelmed with the influx of patients.

It wasn't getting any easier for him, but a routine was coalescing that kept him on track. Get up, go to work, come home, sleep. He ate something in between, whenever he remembered to, drank too much coffee and read medical journals to keep abreast of things.

It wasn't anything more than a shift from black to white, black to white. Colourless. Monotonous. Dreary. He occasionally met up with Mike Stamford during their lunch break and exchanged a few empty words. Yeah, I'm doing fine (lie). Not having nightmares (lie). Eating and drinking enough (lie). Et cetera ad nauseum. Sometimes John wondered whether he had also died that day. Whether he were actually dead and in hell, where his days kept repeating in a never-ending loop, where the minimal differences passed by him unnoticed.

At least the surprise attacks from journalists had lessened once the hullabaloo surrounding Sherlock's funeral was over. Other dramas had supplanted that one, expelling it from the minds of those people who had only known the consulting detective as a figure in the papers. People generally avoided bringing it up with John now, giving him a chance to distance himself from what had happened.

Unfortunately, not everyone possessed such tact.

Shortly before lunchtime, Mr Prakash came into the consultation room with a recurrence of his stomach issue. John skimmed his file, wondering whether there were anything he could still do to help him, or whether it would be better to send him straight to a gastroenterologist. All of a sudden, the patient raised his hand and pointed at John.

"Now I remember! You're the partner of that detective, that Sherlock Holmes! Wow, what a coincidence that I ended up with you! I'm a big fan of your blog!"

John swallowed hard and tried to filter out the man's waterfall of words. He didn't want to hear how wonderful Sherlock Holmes had been, and how exciting it was to read about his cases in the papers. Oh yes, and how dramatic his death had been, how terrible, how unreal. What a great loss for London and the rest of Great Britain. Whether there were another detective somewhere in the world who was capable of such impressive feats? Because he suspected that his wife was cheating on him and...

Mr Prakash fell silent when his physician leapt to his feet and grabbed him by the collar, throwing insult after superlative insult at him. Frightened, he peered into John's face, which was twisted with fury, and raised his hands in defence. That was obviously a mistake, as Dr Watson reacted instinctively and shoved the man off his chair to preclude the supposed attack. Mr Prakash scurried to save himself in a corner of the consulting room, throwing his hands over his head in a protective gesture.

John had been loud enough to summon his colleagues to the scene. They pulled him away from the patient and shuttled him out of the room to put some space between him and Mr Prakash, his senseless blabbering still burning in John's ears. Meanwhile, others tended to the patient, who hadn't been hurt, fortunately, just thoroughly shaken.

"Maybe you should talk to your therapist," Mike suggested at lunch. John grunted in a vaguely affirmative way as he stared into his salad. When the words finally penetrated his brain, however, he gaped at his friend as if he'd just declared John insane.

"You know... to talk about it."

"What... 'it'?" John asked, clearly affronted.

Mike stopped chewing and gave him a look. "Oh, John... I can't bear to stand by and watch anymore. Get some help."

"I'm fine." Even John realised how flat his voice sounded. But how would seeing a therapist change things? It wouldn't bring Sherlock back to life; he was fairly certain of that. Nor would it stop other people's ridiculous comments.

When John returned from lunch, the receptionist told him that the head of department wanted to see him straight away. The ensuing conversation was short and sweet. John was placed on temporary leave, as he was obviously overworked and no longer in control of himself. In other words, he was volatile and a danger to himself and others. Not that those exact words were used between colleagues. His boss advised him urgently to see a therapist; and John wasn't to be allowed to treat any more patients until he'd received said therapist's okay.

For the rest of the day, John's focus was subsumed by thoughts of that meeting, along with the concerns which his friend Mike had expressed. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe he really should go see Ella once more. She was well acquainted with his history, and might be able to draw some analogies where others would need to dig around for a while first. Maybe he just needed a little more time to find himself again. Pathetic.

That same day, John made an appointment with Ella Thompson's office. Since it was an emergency of sorts, he wouldn't have to wait long: he was given a date for the next week. John rang off with a queasy feeling in his stomach.

 

******

 

It was pouring on the day of his appointment. London was ensconced in a grey-in-grey costume of rain, umbrellas, and dreary faces. The constant rushing sound of the water drowned out all of the other sounds of the city, sweeping together weary thoughts like refuse in the gutters. Faded spots of colour that clung to sewer grates or collected in lonely corners. Cold and wet and dismal.

John had been sitting across from Ella for five whole minutes. They hadn't exchanged a single word beyond a curt greeting. The strange music of the splashing on the balcony and the beating of the raindrops on the portico were the only sounds that made the silence between them bearable.

"Why today?" Ella asked at some point.

John blinked in irritation a couple of times, trying to understand the intention behind her words. "You want to hear it from me?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment," she said, her hands resting on the arms of her chair, her legs crossed. She appeared sterner than she sounded.

John leaned an elbow on his chair and ran his fingers across his chin. "You read the papers?" he asked coolly. Disbelief coloured his voice, covering the frustration that increasingly demanded his attention.

"Sometimes," Ella answered nonchalantly.

John nodded as if that answered the obvious, but Ella waited for him to continue.

"And you watch the telly," he added, tapping his lips as if to hold back the words that were burning on his tongue. "You know why I'm here." All of Great Britain knew it. He hesitated. All of a sudden, he realised that she wasn't going to let it go until he said it. It shouldn't be so hard to get the words out, yet he didn't know how to put it.

"I'm here because..." The rest of the sentence stuck in his throat when he felt despair inevitably win the upper hand. Tears shot into his eyes, which he struggled to hold back. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze, and tried to breathe normally.

Ella shifted in her chair, rested her elbows on her knees and leaned toward him. "What's happened, John?" she asked, a gentle urgency in her tone.

John swallowed hard and refocused on the woman across from him. His head felt heavy and empty, even though he could clearly see the thoughts and memories etched into his soul. He nodded barely perceptibly, made a sound of agreement as if to say he'd understood what she wanted from him. Before he spoke, he took a deep breath, trying to infuse his reply with as much calm as possible so that his voice wouldn't crack.

"Sher..." He broke off, fighting the nausea that arose. His body was nothing but a quivering heap, although very little of the chaos showed on the outside.

"You need to get it out," Ella said, encouraging.

John nodded again, trying to calm himself, to breathe, to separate the emotions from the words.

"My best friend," he began, inwardly cursing the uncertainty in his voice, "Sherlock Holmes..." He swallowed hard, looking for a fixed point in the room that he could focus on in order not to drown in the sea of tears and rain. "… is dead."

John's face crumpled in pain as he struggled with the burning behind his eyelids. Ella waited, giving him time to calm down. They didn't get far that day. John was only able to get out in a few broken, halting words on what had happened, how he'd witnessed Sherlock's fall from the bridge. How he'd hoped and prayed that his friend would turn up again. Until the point came when he would even have been satisfied if they'd found his body, just so he could attain closure.

 

******

 

John didn't intend to see Ella regularly, since he didn't think there was any point to the therapy, but he didn't have any other choice. The weekly sessions after Afghanistan hadn't done any good either. What had happened couldn't be undone. All he could do was live with the emotions, come to terms, and move on. Ella had recognised his reluctance this time and urged him to spend more time with his friends and co-workers, get out more with people who could relieve him of some of his burden through their company.

No dates (as if there were any question of that!), just regular run-of-the-mill personal interactions that she believed would promote healing. _Healing_... as if he were ill!

John had arranged to meet up with Sarah that afternoon, as he hadn't seen her in quite a while. It was true that she'd come to the funeral, but she'd left again very quickly. She wasn't comfortable around so many people, and had never been very good friends with Sherlock. She'd only made the effort for John's sake, which he counted as a point in her favour.

Sarah was wearing a cornflower blue summer dress and sat with her legs crossed when John arrived at the cafe. A cup of coffee and a glass of water stood on the table in front of her. She folded up the newspaper she was reading and set it aside, greeting John with a kiss on the cheek. A hesitant touch that could barely be called one.

Even though John had been looking forward to the meeting, the feeling disappeared promptly as soon as he sat down. Sarah's open, inquisitive smile bored its way into his flesh like claws, and he immediately felt exposed. Of course she was interested in hearing whether he was doing any better – she'd got wind of the incident with Mr Prakash – and whether he was recovering well. John fancied he heard a reproach in her voice. After all, he'd attacked a patient, tarnishing the image of doctors everywhere and casting the entire profession in a bad light. Or maybe he was just imagining it.

The sun was hot on the back of his neck, eating its way through his beige shirt. There was an undercurrent of glasses clinking and the sound of spoons against porcelain alongside the monotonous buzz of words from the guests around them. John and Sarah's conversation was more halting and tense than that of their neighbours. As if there were a wall between them that slowed the momentum of their words.

John could see all of the unspoken questions on the tip of Sarah's tongue. All the things they hadn't got round to talking about since the last time he'd sought refuge on her couch. An entire lifetime seemed to have passed by in the meantime. The brief, stormy affair with Greg. The thing with Moriarty. And of course Sherlock. Sherlock, always Sherlock.

Sarah had already said back then that she'd seen how Sherlock felt. Maybe she just wanted to hear that she'd been right. But John wasn't about to give her the satisfaction. Not now, not when a gravestone had been placed in a cemetery with Sherlock's name on it. Maybe she just wanted to satisfy her curiosity and find out how things were with John now. The _obviously-not-not-gay_ thing. Of course, she was well aware that it was none of her business, and that her only hope was that John would bring it up himself. That wasn't about to happen. Not today, not here. Probably not ever.

They parted ways soon afterwards. Said good-bye with a promise to keep in touch more frequently in future and do something together. Neither of them believed that day would be coming any time soon.

 

******

 

That Thursday, John was busy packing. He cleared out Sherlock's closet, folded up jackets and trousers, shirts and vests, and packed them all away in suitcases and boxes. The more of Sherlock's things he cleared away, the colder and more lifeless the room felt. John had actually only gone into the second-floor room anymore to get clean clothes; aside from that, his life had increasingly centred on the room which had previously been Sherlock's.

When he heard footsteps on the stairs and the familiar creak of the second-to-last step, his heart twisted in eager anticipation. It only took a fraction of a second for his common sense to return and for his brain to remind his body that any expectation of seeing Sherlock appear in the doorway was futile, illusory, and just plain wrong.

It was Greg instead. His hand raised in a casual greeting, a smile that wasn't really one on his lips. John's shoulders drooped in defeat.

"You're packing up Sherlock's things?" Greg asked, barely concealing the trace of resignation in his voice. He was obviously unhappy at not having been asked to help or give his opinion. John closed the first suitcase and set it down in front of the now-empty dresser.

"Tea?"

Greg had never seen the kitchen so tidy. The table in the middle was free of glassware and Petri dishes. No mason jars with obscure contents on the counters. Even the microscope, which had _always_ been there, had now been put away. The space felt downright sterile compared to before. Greg leaned back against the counter with his arms crossed, almost as if he were afraid he might disturb the miracle with a careless motion.

He watched as John filled the kettle with water and turned it on, took teacups out of the tidied cupboard, and dropped teabags into the porcelain teapot.

"Sorry I don't have any coffee in. I can pop down to Mrs Hudson and ask for some if you'd like," John said, crossing his arms as if trying to find something to hold on to.

"No need. Tea's fine."

They stood there in silence until the water started bubbling and the kettle turned itself off. John brought the tray into the living room and set it down on the coffee table, poured the water, and sat down. Greg sat next to him, resting his elbows on his knees and interlacing his fingers as he struggled to find words.

"You're on a leave of absence?" he finally asked.

John, who had just lifted his teacup to his lips, set it back down on the tray and sighed. "Looks that way."

"Was there some problem? You know you can come to me anytime at all if you need to talk to someone... You don't have to..." Greg made a circular gesture with his hand as if trying to pluck the words out of the air. "… deal with this all yourself."

John snorted grimly before responding. "Of course I do. No one can do it for me."

"No, I guess not. Not directly at any rate... but... maybe you could... I don't know... talk about it? Maybe it would help to voice your feelings. To have someone listen. Who... John, you know how I feel about you. We could..." Greg broke off and bit his bottom lip, all too conscious of John's stricken look.

A huge black hole was opening up inside John, seeming to swallow up everything that was being left unspoken, that hovered in the air between them. _He can't be serious?!_ John thought and stood up, went to the window to place some physical distance between them. The world outside looked so normal. Everything proceeding in its usual manner. Gear turning against gear, keeping the balance of normalcy. But people on the street couldn't see what was going on behind the windows. They couldn't see one man approaching the other, gently placing one hand on his upper arm and brushing his short hair with his nose. A hesitant plea. An offer. Unspoken and yet as loud as a shout between them.

John tore away from the familiar-unfamiliar intimacy, went to his armchair, and placed his hands on the back of it, barricading himself behind the furniture. Fury lurked in his reddened eyes.

"You're not doing this to me again, Greg! Bloody hell! You cut me out, presented me with a fait accompli, and kicked me to the kerb!" Feelings of guilt and anger tore at John's nerves. He didn't want to blame Greg for returning to his wife without having spoken to John about it. But it still hurt whenever he thought of it. Even if there hadn't been any consequences in the end because of Sherlock, and he'd been happy for his friend.

"You can't honestly expect me to take up with you again because your wife's left you again. Because Sherlock's not here anymore. For God's sake, you can't just turn back the clock! What did you think?! That we'd pick up where we left off? No, damn it! The man I love is dead!"

"I'm sorry..."

John dug his fingers into the straw-like hair on his head and squeezed his eyes shut, furious. "Just get out!" he growled between gritted teeth. "I need to finish packing up."

Greg hesitated for a moment, watching John; uncertain whether he should obey the simple request. Or whether it might mean they would never see each other again. John seemed to recognise his fear. He forced himself to relax, once again anchoring himself on the chair.

"I'll be in touch..."

Greg nodded, grateful. Then left.

 

+++

tbc

 

 

 


	6. Sunday, 12.08.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John buttoned up the navy blue shirt with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He straightened the collar and stuffed the tails into his beige trousers, then rolled the sleeves up to his elbows only to promptly change his mind, roll the sleeves back down, and slide the buttons through the holes in the cuffs. Satisfied by one final glance in the mirror, he left the bedroom which still didn't feel like his.

He'd moved all of Sherlock's things up to the second floor. The only thing he'd kept was Sherlock's blue scarf, which he stored safely tucked away amongst his jumpers. He'd lugged a cardboard box with personal documents into the living room so that Mycroft could take care of them when he had time. John hadn't really looked at the papers, feeling as if it would be like snooping in Sherlock's private affairs.

Things had remained pretty much the same in the living room, for the most part. John didn't have the heart to sort through the mish-mosh of odds and ends and separate out Sherlock's things from his. Removing Sherlock's books and curiosities would have meant leaving the flat bare. John also didn't want to ask Mycroft whether he wanted to keep any of what was left: he couldn't imagine Mycroft had any actual need for his little brother's things. And John wanted to avoid anything being tossed away unloved.

John took the Underground towards the cemetery. He hoped the residents of London had found other things to focus on by now, and he could spend a few minutes at Sherlock's grave in peace without constantly being interrupted. He didn't do this often. After all, Sherlock wasn't really there, and none of it had anything to do with the consulting detective, other than the name engraved in the marble. John went anyway whenever he wanted to talk to his friend. Maybe it was something about the atmosphere at the cemetery, the quiet and seclusion.

John could already see from a distance as he walked up the gravel path that someone was standing in front of the grave. The crunching beneath his shoes fell silent as he stepped onto the grass, approaching the figure in virtual silence. All of a sudden, he recognised the visitor and had to suppress a grunt of annoyance. Victor Trevor. John took up a position beside him, gave him a quick sideways glance, and then looked down at the fresh flowers there. Carnations.

"Why didn't you come to the funeral?" John asked; the question had been plaguing him for weeks. He couldn't fathom how someone who had been so close to Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to attend.

Victor snorted derisively and gave his head a slight shake. "I was there. But when I saw how many people were there, I left. What was the point of such a circus? All those rubberneckers and police... was it really necessary?"

John looked up at Victor and frowned grimly. "I had nothing to do with it, if that's what you're driving at. His family made all of the funeral arrangements, but their hands were tied too when it came to privacy. Mr and Mrs Holmes weren't even there..."

"The whole thing was nothing but a media spectacle. I'm surprised you were so willing to participate in it, Doc..."

"Don't be ridiculous. I didn't like any of it either. I wanted to say good-bye to Sherlock in peace. But he's not even in the bloody coffin!"

Silence fell over them, each lost in his own thoughts.

"I could have used you here," John said eventually, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. "None of those people can even begin to understand what all of this is doing to me. Yes, they're all nice and they're trying, but..." John shook his head in resignation, squeezing his hands into fists in his pockets. "No one knew him the way you did. Not even me. That's... fuck." John turned away and pinched the bridge of his nose. Anger, disappointment, and grief oozed from every one of his pores, making him tremble. He clenched his teeth together so hard that it hurt; tried desperately to shove his emotions away, out of reach, in order not to be so bloody vulnerable.

Nearly two minutes passed before John heard grass rustling. Victor stood right next to him and touched John's shoulder with his. A friendly nudge.

"Want to go to the bridge?" he asked, trying to catch John's eye. John nodded reluctantly.

Together, they left the cemetery and rode to Mansion House station; from there, they walked the last hundred metres to Southwark Bridge. They stopped approximately at the mid-point and leaned on the railing, looking down at the Thames. There was a large amount of early afternoon traffic with lots of pedestrians crossing the bridge. No one paid any attention to the two men; after all, it wasn't unusual to admire the cityscape from there.

"It was right here," John said softly, wrapping his hands around the turquoise railing. "This is where they fell." His eyes drifted across the barrier, mesmerised by the gentle lapping of the Thames. By light of day, it bore no resemblance to the gruesome creature that kept appearing in John's dreams.

"Sometimes I think I imagined it all. That he'll be there when I get home. That he'll have set up some mad experiment in the kitchen and be sitting there amidst severed thumbs and hazardous chemicals... that he'd been talking with me all day even though I wasn't home... and that he'll call me from the living room to bring him his phone even though it's lying right next to him."

Victor, standing with his back to the water, blinked against the sunlight and watched John closely. He didn't know what it was that had impressed Sherlock so much about this John Watson fellow, but there must have been something special. Something extraordinary. Not many people had succeeded in drawing Sherlock's attention and continuing to fascinate him so much that he never lost interest.

John wasn't stupid; he'd studied medicine and become a doctor. He was brave and loyal, knew how to defend himself and his friends. Daring and at times volatile. A tempest in an innocuous teacup. An animal that walked faithfully alongside its pack members in one moment, only to turn into a wild beast the next when it wanted to protect someone who was in danger. Even if that person wasn't one of his friends... A man full of contradictions that somehow balanced each other out.

"It's such a nice day. We should do something to get our minds on something else," Victor suggested. He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket, took one out, and lit it. John watched aghast, as if he'd gone completely insane.

"What … were you thinking of?"

"I haven't been to Camden in a while. We could get something to eat there and walk around the markets for a bit. All the colourful characters are bound to put a smile on your face." The statement was accompanied by an impish grin. "Come on, do yourself a favour," Victor said and started to walk along the bridge. John hesitated for a moment, but ended up following and catching up. After all, Ella had told him he should spend more time with... friends.

Camden Market in and around Camden's High Street was bustling with countless visitors that Sunday as usual. Along with street vendors and tourists, locals enjoyed slumming their way down here in order to partake in the festive atmosphere, acquire unique, handmade jewellery, clothing, and other knick-knacks, or eat something at one of the numerous stalls that were spread across the entire site.

John and Victor crossed Regent's Canal and turned left into the market to find something to eat first. They ate falafel wrapped in bread while alternately people-watching and observing the handful of boats in the canal. Victor grinned when he saw John making an effort not to let any of the delicious sesame dressing drip onto his blue shirt, yet still managing to get something stuck between his teeth.

"I need a pair of sunglasses," Victor announced, blowing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

"All right. And I'm sure there's a record shop somewhere around here too..." John mused, wiping the last few crumbs from his chin with a serviette. He felt just a little bit proud that he'd eaten something decent for once.

"Sure, there are a few. We'll stumble across one sooner or later. Here, look." With a deft flick of his wrist, Victor dropped a pair of sunglasses that he'd pulled off a display onto his nose. He turned toward John and made him laugh with a goofy expression.

"Not good? Maybe this one?" Passing the first pair to John, he reached for another and put them on, wiggling his eyebrows meaningfully. One glance in the mirror put a damper on his initial enthusiasm, however, making him groan in disgust before he returned the sunglasses to their bracket. "No, definitely not those. How about you? These might look good on you," he said, depositing a third pair onto John's nose before he could put up a defence.

"No, no, really, no," John protested. He was just reaching for the side of the frame when Victor held up a mirror in front of him.

"You should take those. They go well with your shirt."

"No, I... don't need any," John said, taking one last long look at the black frames with blue lenses before putting them back.

"Then I'll take them!" Victor proclaimed, grabbing the sunglasses out of John's hand. He got the salesperson’s attention and paid for them, but rather than putting them on right away, Victor slid them back on top of his head, holding his unruly hair in place like with an Alice band. As he got his change, he asked the salesperson where the nearest record shop was.

On their way there, the two men wove their way through the people, stopping here and there to check out the displays, all the while chatting about all of the colourful wares that crossed their path.

John heaved a sigh of relief. It had been a long time since he'd been able to simply enjoy himself. Without pain or viciously cycling thoughts. Without the deep abyss lurking behind his eyelids. It was the first time since Sherlock's death that he saw a glimmer of hope for a normal life. A life he could lead without Sherlock.

John was starting to feel a little light-headed from all of the crowds of people. Now and then, he fancied he saw a familiar face flash by, only to have it disappear a moment later. It wasn't until a scrawny figure came towards them with purposeful steps that his body reacted instinctively. The sense of approaching danger sent adrenaline shooting through his veins. Alarmed, he clenched his hands into fists, but just then a heavy-set man bumped into John from behind, knocking him off-balance for a moment. John whirled around to lay eyes on his potential attacker, but he'd already caught up to Victor, who was taken completely off-guard.

_No, no, this can't...?!_

The smaller man had taken a flying leap and landed on Victor, who was taken by surprise and landed roughly on the ground. He was able to get in a couple of more or less on-target punches before John got to them, grabbed the assailant by the collar, and tossed him into a nearby stall with a great heave, knocking the air out of his lungs. Even as John held him down, an icy cold hand reached into John's gut, squeezing his insides mercilessly when the other man groaned in pain and glared daggers at him.

The short black hair, the nearly black eyes, the pale face... the similarity to James Moriarty was striking – if the latter had been ten years younger. And not dead. The longer John studied the man in his grip, the more dissimilarities he discovered. Not least of which were the various tattoos covering his bare arms.

A hand was lowered onto John's shoulder, pressing gently. "It's all right, I know him," Victor reassured him.

John looked up at him uncertainly but released his grip and finally withdrew his hands from the other man entirely. All of a sudden, he became aware of the murmurs from the people who had stopped to satisfy their curiosity and witnessed the entire scene. Now, the excitement having passed, they drifted off.

"What the fuck, Nozzer?" Victor hissed, wiping his hand across his split lip. Blood dripped from his chin.

A furious quiver ran through the young man's body. His hands balled into fists, he glared at Victor but kept himself reined in because of John. "It's all your fault!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Victor demanded, leaning against the wall next to Nozzer's head.

John didn't like his exposed position: it offered far too large an area for attack. He kept a watchful eye on the two men.

"Tiger! He's dead! Because of you!" Nozzer finally blurted out.

John paled. He could virtually feel his blood freezing, slowing to a crawl through his veins as if in slow motion. A flood of images washed over him. Images from the Rose Playhouse, where he'd found Victor lying lifeless. Where he'd shot Sebastian Moran. _Tiger_. His eyes darted back and forth between this Nozzer fellow and Victor, but the latter was deliberately avoiding so much as even glancing at John.

"Are you completely mad?! Tiger tried to kill me! He bloody poisoned me. If the police hadn't found me in time and taken care of that bastard, I wouldn't even be standing here, got it? Your fucking _Sir_ was a manipulative arsehole who walked over dead bodies without a second thought. You should be grateful instead that you didn't turn out to be one of his victims, Nozzer!"

The young man had gone still. He was still staring angrily at Victor but didn't dare respond to his arguments.

"Come on, let's go," Victor said to John and shoved him forward into the crowd.

They left Camden Market and decided to share a taxi to Victor's, since his flat was closer.

"What the hell, Victor?!" John barked once they'd climbed into the back seat and set off. "Where do you know that nutter from?"

"Just slow down a mo', yeah? He was my in with Tiger, who I met under slightly different circumstances than you – as you may recall. You and Sherlock, you're the ones who didn't let me in on the whole story. How in the world was I supposed to know that Tiger and Moran were the same person?!"

"I did warn you..."

"Oh, come on, John! That was no warning, that was a sweet little tip-off that you were jealous. No one in my situation would have taken it seriously," Victor defended himself, crossing his arms over his chest.

John turned away, grinding his teeth, and stared out the window of the taxi. He was seething inside, but he didn't know how to respond to Victor's statement. It was true that he and Sherlock hadn't informed Victor about the Moriarty case. But at the time, they'd been working on the basis of speculation and hadn't been able to see the larger picture yet. Moriarty had used that to his own advantage and pushed Victor toward Moran. Whether Nozzer had anything to do with it or had only ended up getting mixed up accidentally was something no one could say for certain.

The taxi pulled up in front of Victor's house. They paid and got out and went to the entryway, where Victor fished his keys out of his trouser pocket.

"Do you want to come in?" he asked, but John shook his head firmly.

"No, no, honestly no. I... erm... I'm going to head on home."

"Have it your way. But... thanks again for your help. I'm..." Victor paused and looked off to the side, exhaling softly. There was silence between them for a moment, both uncertain whether anything else needed to be said.

"Okay then," John said, finally turning away.

"John? Stay a bit," Victor asked him after all, shakily flipping the key in his hand over and over.

Nonplussed, John looked at him, eventually nodding. It wasn't unusual for people who had been physically attacked to need company. Or at least that's what he told himself.

John sat down on the long couch in the living room and looked around while Victor mucked about in the kitchen, cursing softly. He brought in two bottles of beer and set them down on the coffee table with a fakely apologetic expression.

"Out of tea," he announced and threw himself down onto the couch. He rubbed his hands roughly over his face, as if he were terribly tired, only to realise that the sunglasses were still perched on top of his head. Amazingly enough, they hadn't fallen off during the scuffle. He set them down on the table and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Have you got a first aid kit?" John asked, indicating Victor's face when he gave John a questioning look.

"Hold on." Victor jumped up again and went into the kitchen, digging around in various drawers only to slam them shut again just a little too hard. He casually tossed a small, black, soft-shelled case with a white cross printed on it in John's direction.

John opened it and inspected the contents. In addition to plasters and bandages, it held compresses and disinfectant wipes in single-use packs. John took one of them out, tore it open, and held it out.

"Hold that on your lip, I'll be right back."

While Victor fumbled the wipe out of the wrapper, John went into the bathroom and washed his hands thoroughly. Then he sat down next to Victor again and reached for his chin in order to get a better look at the scrapes and the cut. He took out another wipe and cleaned the wound thoroughly, ignoring Victor's watchful gaze entirely.

"You don't need a plaster. The cut isn't deep and it will heal quicker if you leave it uncovered. Watch out when you eat or drink that you don't tear it open again."

"Yes sir, Mr Doctor," Victor joked, rolling his eyes in mock boredom.

"Now that you've had your wounds tended to, you could tell me how things continued back then? I mean, you just kissed Sherlock out of the blue... he must have gone completely mental."

"No, not really. I only wanted to wind him up... test him... I don't know. At any rate, I never considered that Sherlock didn't have any experience up to then. I mean... even back then, he had a way of looking at you, looking directly inside you and knowing every last thing about you without ever exchanging a single word. It was... brilliant – and bloody frightening," Victor said, taking a careful sip from his bottle.

"That was certainly one of the reasons most of the other students didn't want to have anything to do with him. No one wanted to expose themselves and open themselves to an attack. Sherlock was completely oblivious that his behaviour caused such resentment. I had nothing to hide, and after the whole thing with the kiss, my predatory instinct was aroused anyway." Victor shrugged. "I wanted him."

 

+++

tbc

 


	7. December, 1994: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

Once again, Victor was leaning against the chestnut tree in front of the natural sciences building, waiting for Tom. At least that's how it looked to anyone who didn't know any better regarding their relationship. Even Victor tried to tell himself that's what he was doing, despite the fact that a part of him was well aware that he had other reasons.

Ever since he'd kissed Sherlock on this very spot, the latter had been avoiding any contact with Victor. The moment their eyes met when out and about on campus or in the halls of the various buildings, Sherlock would look away or even do a prompt about-face. It was horribly childish. And it was driving Victor mad. The more Sherlock avoided him, the stronger the urge became to provoke him. Or to grab him and pull him into the next-best corner to kiss him properly. After all, that quick peck from the first time couldn't really be called a serious kiss. Victor could do better. Much better.

When Tom came out of the building, Victor lifted his hand in greeting. Tom's expression brightened, but Victor knew that he would avoid showing any affection openly. Tom was still afraid of the wrong people getting wind of his sexual orientation. Victor respected that, even if he thought it would be better for Tom to face his fears.

As expected, Sherlock came out shortly after Tom, one hand firmly gripping the strap of his rucksack as if he were seeking something to anchor him. Sherlock looked around, his gaze alert, and their eyes met for a fraction of a second before he looked away again. Victor cursed silently but didn't let anything show, because Tom had just reached him.

"You again? I'm starting to feel like you're following me!" Tom joked, giving Victor a conspiratorial wink.

"You wish. No, I just didn't want to eat alone," Victor replied archly, playing the role of the 'mate' to the hilt. It was quite clear that Tom had nothing against spending their lunch hour together.

Sherlock hurried past the two of them with quick, somewhat stilted strides, blurting out a "Hello," but not waiting for a response. Victor watched him leave, nonplussed. The first word in six days. Someone seemed to have slowly but surely got a grip on themselves.

"Let's go," Victor suggested, draping his arm over Tom's shoulders.

Tom pushed his hand away, gently but firmly, and gave Victor a sidelong apologetic smile. Victor rolled his eyes and dug around for his cigarettes, slid one between his lips, and lit it. The blue haze between them couldn't hide his disgruntlement.

They bought themselves tea, coffee, and something to eat in a chain sandwich shop and sat at the counter in front of the window. Victor jiggled one leg anxiously as he nervously nibbled on a piece of lettuce sticking out from between the slices of bread.

Outside, pedestrians were walking past in thick coats with their collars up and their hands inside warm gloves. Many of them were carrying full bags with logos from well-known shops. The first Christmas presents. There was a pervasive aroma of cinnamon and baking, eggnog and roasted chestnuts. It hadn't snowed yet, but many of the shop display windows had been decorated with spray-on fake snow. Strings of lights and Christmas tree ornaments did the rest. Everything glittered and twinkled like a Christmas market. Christmas songs had become a constant background accompaniment that followed him everywhere.

Victor sighed. He didn't like the Christmas season very much. His family would be expecting him in Manchester, but he hated the annual reunions. The Trevors, otherwise quite stern and unbending, transformed into the sweetest characters straight out of the telly during the holidays. Always smiling, always friendly. As expected. The differences of opinion and the immense pigheadedness that were usually par for the course were neatly set aside and only taken out again when the party was officially over. As soon as the curtains fell and the players were allowed to exit the stage. All a charade.

"Are you going to your parents' for Christmas?" Tom asked, as if he'd read Victor's thoughts.

Victor shrugged. "I don't know yet. If nothing better comes up... hey, you're in a study group with that Sherlock bloke, aren't you? What's he like?"

"Sherlock? Awful... I mean, he's brilliant when it comes to lab work, basically does everything himself if I don't keep up, but that's the problem, isn't it. He hardly lets me do anything, nags at me constantly if he deigns to speak to me at all. I've never met such an arrogant arse! Maybe I should have accepted his offer to do the project alone and let me copy the results at the end after all," Tom mused as he sipped at his tea.

Victor drew his eyebrows together sceptically at his words. "He offered to do that? That's as good as a free pass for the entire semester. Why didn't you say yes?"

Tom snorted disdainfully. "Believe it or not, I actually wanted to learn something in that course. Sherlock's not making it easy, though. He doesn't belong in there at all. He knows everything we're doing already. He's bored to death and always experiments around on stuff that doesn't sit right with me. I left early last time because I was afraid he was going to blow the lab up. I didn't want to be around for that..."

Victor couldn't suppress a smirk. "Sounds rather likeable if you ask me," he said and shoved the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.

"Likeable... I don't know about that... I'd rather say he's dangerous. An absolute nutter." Tom shook his head slowly, adding a theatrical sigh. "Oh right, I'm supposed to ask you for Abby if you'd help transport the drinks for the party this weekend."

"Sounds like madame needs a pack mule."

Late that afternoon, the two of them picked Abigail up and drove together to the beverage distributor to buy alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks for the upcoming Christmas party. Abigail was extremely grateful that the two men were so willing to help her out. The party was going to be held a little ways outside of the city. It took a good half hour by car or train to get to the event location. Secluded enough not to cause the neighbours to summon the police for breaching the peace. And there was enough space for anyone to spend the night if they couldn't drive anymore or missed the last train, which solved a problem for almost everyone.

Abigail, who was driving, explained that there would be more than fifty guests from various years of study. "So we should definitely bring sleeping bags along, so we can sleep there. They're sure not to have enough on hand."

Victor gazed out the side window. Grey clouds hung from the sky. The first flakes of snow were calmly floating to the ground or hitting the windscreen. "Is that Sherlock guy coming too?" he asked.

Tom snorted disdainfully from the back. "Do we have to discuss him again?"

"He actually makes quite a pleasant impression," Abigail argued, with an inquisitive glance in the rear-view mirror. Tom looked like a sulky child with his arms crossed and eyebrows lowered. "Are there problems in the lab, Tom?" Without waiting for a response, Abigail continued speaking, this time directly to Victor: "He's still attending the lit seminar, but he hasn't spoken to Walters yet. Must not have the guts," she gossiped. Victor grunted his agreement. "I think I'll ask him if he'd like to come to the party too," she said contemplatively as she turned on the indicator.

"Oh, come on! He'll ruin all the fun," Tom cried, tossing his hands up.

A smirk tugged at the corners of Victor's mouth, but he didn't make any further comment.

 

******

 

There was very little to indicate it was actually a Christmas party. For one thing, it was still a week until Christmas. For another, there were neither presents nor a tree. Just a couple of strings of fairy lights hanging from the windows. Almost romantic. Other that that, the lighting was sparse. A couple of colourful light bulbs and tea-lights here and there. Someone had indulged themselves in mounting a sprig of mistletoe over the front door, causing repeated traffic jams underneath it. As if everyone had a duty to be kissed at least once in front of the crowd beneath the scraggly twig.

In the generously sized living room, a DJ stood behind his mixing console, holding his headphones pressed to one ear while his other hand punched buttons and flipped switches seemingly at random. Music boomed throughout the house from several loudspeakers, making the furnishings vibrate. Snacks and drinks were distributed on various tables, virtually within arm's reach from any corner. The host's parents used to use the two-storey house as a holiday home, but the family hadn't been there since the divorce. No one knew whether the parents had given permission for the party, but then no one really cared either.

"Dance with me," Victor rumbled close to Tom's ear, but Tom just looked at Victor in disbelief and shook his head emphatically.

"Come on!" Victor's voice became louder over the music and buzz of voices. He leaned in closer to Tom, touching his earlobe carefully with his tongue. Tom shoved Victor away hard, his hand clenched in Victor's black shirt for a moment as if what he really wanted was to hold onto him and draw him in. His expression wavered on a fine line between fear and desire.

"Whatever," Victor growled and emptied his plastic cup, crumpled it up, and tossed it carelessly onto the closest table. The cup bounced unchecked off the wall of bottles lined up there and fell to the floor. Victor turned away and strode across the room, mixing with the crowd and letting the music take effect on him. The bass in his muscles, an expectant tingling in his limbs. When he started to dance, the room was his. He let himself be buoyed up by the music, playing and flirting with it.

His eyes skimmed over the heads of the other partygoers, looking for a potential dance partner. Whether woman or man – it was all the same to him. He wanted an echo. Wanted to feel the momentum transferring from one body to another through dance. Flowing through him, vibrating inside him. Abigail stood close by, bouncing on the balls of her feet in time with the music and watching the carefree people around her as if just waiting for an opportunity. Their eyes met, and Victor gestured to her with his index finger, indicating she should come over to him. A playful smile danced on her lips when she followed the summons. Red and green highlights caught in her hair, painting her pale skin like a sheet of paper.

Just then, Victor realised that someone was leaning against the wall directly behind Abigail, watching him. Sherlock. Positioned between a window and a table, he had a good view of the entire room without being too visible himself. The insecure aura he was radiating must be due to the fact that he didn't usually come to events like this; or so Victor thought to himself. Sherlock raised a plastic cup to his mouth and took a large sip, quickly averting his eyes.

Victor licked his lips and enthusiastically reached for Abigail's hand so he could twirl her around and dance with her. He pressed his hips provocatively against hers, rocking them salaciously. He found himself filled with a certain satisfaction. Sherlock was here. Good. It was a start. Of some sort, anyway.

 

******

 

Sherlock kept popping up in Victor's peripheral vision throughout the course of the night. Always alone, always closed off. Like a shadow that kept getting lost in the darkness. He always held a white plastic cup in his hand like a lifeline he clung to. Like a symbol of belonging that legitimised his presence. Victor didn't know how much Sherlock had drunk by that point, but when he saw him swaying and trying to steady himself on the railing of the stairs leading to the upper floor, he went straight over to him.

"Hey, everything okay?" Victor asked amiably.

"Everything's grand," Sherlock murmured, rubbing his palm across his face. "Tired... My head hurts."

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Don't know. I'm fine. Go away."

"Vic?" Abigail appeared beside Victor, placing a hand on his arm with a smile. "Listen, I'm going to go over to Marcus's. It's quieter there. There's barely any room here and I'm not really keen on fighting over a spot to sleep. Are you two coming?" Hope and a silent plea in her eyes. There was probably more to the request, but Victor didn't pursue it.

Tom joined the threesome and tugged tentatively at Victor's sleeve. He'd made himself scarce all night. Yet no sooner had Victor approached Sherlock than he'd come over to see his 'friend.' Certainly not ready to make any sort of public claim of ownership, but obviously enough to show Sherlock his place.

"I wouldn't mind getting out of here either," Tom said. He regarded Sherlock disdainfully where he was leaning against the wall and pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb in order to get control of his vertigo. "Looks like someone doesn't know when he's had enough," he sniped, seeking out Victor's eye for confirmation.

"Let's go then. Sherlock, you're coming too," Victor decided and grabbed Sherlock's arm to drag him toward the exit.

"Is that really necessary?!" Tom blurted out, already putting on his anorak.

"Obviously," Victor replied coolly. "We're not leaving him here."

"My coat..." Sherlock murmured, but didn't protest any further. Abigail fetched it and helped him into it.

After she had found Marcus, the five of them went out to his car together. Happily, he had agreed to be the designated driver for the evening, and hadn't had anything to drink. Or at least less than anyone else, Victor suspected.

It wasn't far to drive over the bumpy cobblestones, barely taking ten minutes before they parked in front of a terraced house. Marcus led his guests into the living room, flipped on the lights, and said they could sleep there. Abigail brought Sherlock – who was clearly dizzy – into the kitchen, where she gave him a glass of water and a headache pill, while the others spread out the sleeping bags they'd brought along.

"I'll... er... sleep in Marcus's room," Abigail announced, leaning against the door jamb and grinning sheepishly, a blush of embarrassment on her cheeks. Or maybe it was just the alcohol.

Victor's only response was a knowing smile before he let her go. "All right there?" he asked when Sherlock staggered back into the living room and crawled into the nearest sleeping bag, which turned out to be Abigail's. Sherlock just grunted, turned his back on the others, and disappeared completely inside the sleeping bag.

Tom rolled his eyes in annoyance, lay down on the sleeping bag in the middle, and gave Victor a furious look.

"Don't look so bent out of shape," Victor whispered, then turned the light out and lay down next to Tom. He propped his head on his hand so he could see Tom... and so he could catch a glimpse of Sherlock, of whom nothing further was visible than a couple of tousled curls.

"I think he's asleep." Victor scooted closer to Tom and leaned over him until their faces were only a couple of millimetres apart. He could feel Tom's body heat and heard Tom's breath catch at the sudden closeness.

"What if he's not?" Tom asked, his voice barely more than a croak. Ignoring his worries, Victor ran his warm fingers across Tom's cheek, grazing the line of his chin with a feather-light touch. A silent promise.

"He was completely out of it on the way over here already. I don't think he's used to drinking so much..." Victor whispered, planting a soft kiss on the corner of Tom's mouth.

Tom turned his head a little so he could return the kiss and reach into Victor's long hair. Soon, the rustling of cloth and the smacking of wet lips were the only sounds in the room, drowning out even the pounding of their hearts. Victor yanked impatiently at the sleeping bag to pull it back, slid his hand in underneath Tom's t-shirt, and cuddled up close to his now-bare body to deepen their kiss.

"Hng..." Tom sighed and wrapped his arms around Victor's neck, filtering out the fact that they weren't alone.

"Shh..." Victor hissed with a mischievous grin and nibbled his way down Tom's neck to his collarbone, where he greedily suckled the skin there in between his teeth, then licked back up his neck to capture Tom's earlobe. He slid one of his legs in between Tom's, pressing his thigh against Tom's groin in silent demand.

Deep, rapid breaths; impatient and imploring. His hands buried in Victor's hair and grasping his back, Tom forgot everything around him and whimpered softly when Victor's teeth sank into the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

At the sound, Victor's eyes flew to check on Sherlock, without pausing what he was doing. Goose pimples marched down his neck when Sherlock's eyes met his. The moonlight that fell into the room through the window was reflected in his limpid eyes as he watched Victor and Tom. Victor smiled smugly to himself and scooted back up far enough so that he could cover Tom's mouth with his, all the while keeping his eyes on Sherlock. His hand slid underneath Tom's jaw and nudged it upward, mercilessly breaking down the last bit of willpower Tom had remaining.

Victor was gratified to see Sherlock's lips part slightly, as if he were having trouble breathing. It was too dark to judge his reaction to the scene any more precisely, but at least he hadn't run off. He liked what he was seeing. Maybe he was recalling the kiss under the chestnut tree and noting that what he was seeing here was completely different. That there was passion at play here that he wasn't personally familiar with. He was curious.

Victor slowly ended the kiss, caught Tom's infatuated gaze, and said, without breaking eye contact, "Do you like what you see?" He then deliberately turned toward Sherlock and felt Tom freeze under him.

Sherlock didn't react, but Victor could see the frantic flickering of his eyes in the semi-darkness as they darted back and forth between the two men.

"Do you want to join in?"

"What the hell, Victor?!" Tom cried, shoving him away. He struggled into a sitting position, drew his knees up to his chest, and flung his arms around them in a protective gesture. "You can't possibly be serious?!"

Victor sat up as well and sighed as if bored. "What's your problem?" he asked coolly. For a moment, absolute silence reigned in the room.

"What's my problem?" Tom demanded, his voice dangerously low. "Bloody hell, Victor, what's your problem? We're snogging and you ask another bloke if he wants to join in? Maybe you should ask me first if I even want that?"

"Well? Do you?" Victor countered nonchalantly.

 

+++

tbc

 

 

 


	8. December, 1994: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

"Well? Do you?" Victor asked nonchalantly. Despite the dim lighting conditions, he could see Tom's mouth gape open in disbelief.

Sherlock had propped himself up on his elbows by now and was watching the two men arguing without intervening. He still hadn't answered Victor's question of whether he wanted to join in. Join in while Victor and Tom snogged. How was that supposed to work? How could three people kiss each other at the same time? It looked complicated enough to kiss _one_ person. How were you supposed to get all of the lips together without bumping heads, coordinate all of the hands, control saliva production, and still find any of it pleasurable? Hypothetically at least.

Kissing looked chaotic and uncontrollable. Did it really feel that good to have another person's tongue in your mouth? To taste that person? To let yourself be licked and bitten? Sherlock didn't know the answer to that. And that bothered him. Of course he had fantasies – wherever they came from. He had frequently felt an urge, a desire, to kiss someone. Especially when he saw Ryan Walters. The wish to be kissed by that man was powerful. Even if it was completely absurd, from an objective standpoint.

Sherlock hastily pulled in his legs when Tom leapt to his feet and stepped over him, fuming. Sherlock must have unconsciously filtered out the rest of the conversation. Victor got up too, albeit less energetically. The light turned on, and Sherlock squinted his eyes at the sudden brightness. He could hear the other two men's voices out in the hall. The hissed words were heated, but he couldn't make them out through the door.

Sherlock sat up and leaned back against the sofa. He heard the front door closing, followed by footsteps in the hall. But only those of a single person. Judging by the creaking of the floorboards, it must be Victor, who was heavier than Tom.

A scant handful of seconds later, his deduction was confirmed when Victor returned to the living room, a full bottle of water in one hand. He closed the door, came back to his sleeping bag, and sat down, also leaning against the sofa. He sighed and drank a couple of sips of water, then handed the bottle to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and followed his example.

"Tom's left. He's going to wait for the first train at the station. Completely barmy."

"The first train arrives at four fifty-three. That's not too long." Sherlock rattled off the information as if he were a British Rail employee. In fact, he had memorised the departure times before he'd left for the party.

"I see," Victor said, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Sherlock drank some more water.

"The two of you..." Sherlock thought for a moment how best to formulate what was going through his head, and whether it was a good idea to bring the topic up at all. Lots of people were sensitive to inquiries on personal issues. "Are you still together?" he eventually asked rather than deducing the answer.

Victor took his time answering. "We were never 'together.' At least not in my mind. Tom probably saw things... differently. When no one was looking, he wanted to be with me, but otherwise I was no more than some random friend. That was just too ridiculous for me. Either you're open about your relationship or you drop it. So... no, we're not together anymore."

"I see," Sherlock said, imitating Victor's tone of voice from before. He took another drink. It felt like the water was flushing out his veins, refilling his cells, slowly but surely replacing the alcohol and making him more lucid. He was still a little dizzy, but not nearly as much as he had been.

"So," Victor said after a while. "You've got a thing for Walters." Not a question, more of an ascertainment.

A trace of red appeared on Sherlock's cheekbones as he nodded.

"But you don't trust yourself enough to approach him."

"I... no." Sherlock shook his head, only to immediately regret the move as his brain felt like it was colliding with the inside of his skull. He groaned and grasped his pounding forehead.

"Because you don't have any experience?"

"Not much..."

"Oh yeah, not much... right. I mean, you said that was your first kiss the other day. Well, sort-of-kiss at any rate. You can't really call that peck a kiss... or what do you think?" Victor asked. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. Was Victor intentionally repeating the word 'kiss' so often?

Sherlock watched Victor's expression shifting and sucked in his bottom lip between his teeth, looking down at the bottle in his hand in embarrassment.

"Need a couple of tips?"

"Tips?" _What kind of tips,_ Sherlock wondered; theoretically, he knew everything there was to know about kissing. He knew that a kiss required the use of thirty-eight muscles, that the pulse rate increased, respiration became shallower, the adrenal cortex released adrenaline and the pancreas released insulin, that cortisol was broken down by neuropeptides in order to reduce stress, that the body temperature fluctuated, and that olfactory information was exchanged. Nothing that would justify all the fuss people made about it.

"I could show you how it goes," Victor said, fixing Sherlock with a look that he didn't know how to interpret. "You're a clever kid and you like making sure everyone knows how much more you know than they do. Wouldn't it be strange if you didn't know anything about kissing? Someone like Walters will hardly have the patience to teach you."

"What is there to know?" Sherlock asked archly, furrowing his brow. He plucked nervously at the label on the bottle and avoided eye contact with Victor, who was still watching him from the side. He didn't know what the purpose of this conversation was; whether Victor was just making fun of him or whether it was really true that Walters would turn him down because of his lack of experience. Sherlock hated not knowing something. Hated being given patronising smiles and talked down to.

Victor twisted his body around so he was facing Sherlock, resting one arm on the seat of the sofa and leaning his head on his hand.

"For example how your body reacts to a kiss and what happens to your partner. What you need to do to cause the reaction you want. What you like and what you don't like. What to do with your hands, and what your partner's hands are doing with you. What it tastes and smells like, how it feels..." Victor said, his voice seeming to change during the course of his monologue, becoming darker, virtually liquefying. It made Sherlock's ears tingle, made the back of his neck tingle, and when he turned toward Victor, he saw that Victor was looking at him with a quiet smile from beneath half-lidded eyes.

"Science can record and explain a lot, but there are certain things you need to experience for yourself. I imagine that any attempt to record and analyse everything would quickly overwhelm an active mind such as yours with all the new input." Victor's tone of voice sounded normal once again. He took the water bottle from Sherlock's hand and drank from it, then looked over at the window, which glowed blackly against the warm light inside the room. It was pitch dark outside.

"It would just be an experiment," Victor said eventually when there was no change in Sherlock's indecisive expression. "No demands, no expectations. You just let it happen and take your time analysing all the data. Then you can make your move on Walters without panicking over it."

"But..." Sherlock objected, only to fall silent again. Victor made a querying sound to prompt Sherlock to keep talking. "I don't know how to approach him. How... how to make him notice me. I know he's interested in men, but I can't say whether he's interested in _me_... or would be... whatever." Sherlock sighed when Victor quirked an eyebrow sceptically. "It's really not that difficult to tell whether person A wants person B if you look closely. But I can't gauge it when I'm involved. People generally react to me with annoyance and unwillingness. In the worst cases, with anger."

Victor couldn't help chuckling softly at those words. He was well aware that Sherlock wasn't good at making friends. But the fact that there was a person behind that all-knowing facade, a person who didn't know his own worth and seemed to misinterpret any positive feelings directed his way: that all said more about Sherlock than he probably wanted to reveal. Maybe it was down to the aforementioned annoyance that Sherlock was so poor at gauging people's reactions to him. Maybe he'd begun to observe people so precisely and break down their behaviours in order to fill that gap in his own system of ordering things.

It obviously hadn't worked.

Sherlock scowled over at Victor, a spark of disappointment in his eyes. The timid hope of finding acceptance shattered between them.

"Oh, come on, don't make that face! I wasn't making fun of you. Honest! Listen, if you go at Walters with a little more self-confidence and don't try to impress on him how much cleverer you are than he is, there shouldn't be any problem," Victor said with a light-hearted smile.

"All right, fine," Sherlock said, sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders. "Then enlighten me as to how it works."

The smile deepened as Victor slowly shook his head. He reached for the water bottle, set it aside, and slid closer to Sherlock until their thighs were touching. The arm he already had resting on the sofa slipped around Sherlock's shoulders, his fingertips skimming their slope with a feather-light touch.

"I'll show you," Victor husked, his face no more than a hand's breadth from Sherlock's.

Sherlock started at the sudden proximity and let his eyes dart from Victor's eyes to his mouth and back again. He noted the small scar on Victor's chin, hidden underneath his five o'clock shadow. A silver crescent. It might have come from a fall or a fight. Sherlock fixated on it so as not to blatantly stare at Victor's half-parted lips, which were coming closer and closer. He smelled Victor's own personal scent, which reminded him of cotton and sunshine – and was anything but unpleasant. He'd already begun to feel the heat of Victor's body before they'd touched. Now the temperature seemed to be increasing with every millimetre.

Then several things happened all at once. Fingers dug into Sherlock's shoulder, drawing him closer; Victor's hand slid up to Sherlock's nape, tilting his head a bit at the same time; strands of blond hair tickled Sherlock's cheek; his breath caught and stuttered when their lips touched. When Sherlock's lip was captured between Victor's and a gentle pressure exerted on it. When a gentle heat hit his skin: soft and warm and pliant. His heartbeat stumbled, reeling blindly. Electrical impulses set his nerve endings on fire.

Information pelted down over Sherlock, but it didn't seem to be getting through anywhere. All of his senses focused on the myriad points of contact, overwhelmed by the demands of getting air into his lungs. Victor's lips relented, pulling away less than a hair's breadth from Sherlock, who could only formulate one single thought: _Please, not yet, don't stop_. And then Victor's mouth was on his again, caressing, exploring. Somehow Sherlock managed to get a breath, even if he couldn't for the life of him say how.

He felt the hand on his neck gently stroking his taut tendons, massaging them with a thumb. Dazed, he opened his eyes, only now realising that he'd closed them at all. He was confronted with a sky blue, searching, questioning, not moving away. Fingers on his cheek, rough and tender and seeking. A thumb cautiously tracing the corner of Sherlock's mouth, following the curve of his bottom lip between two kisses as if investigating its texture. The tip of Victor's tongue, warm and moist. An inconspicuous attendant at first, a hesitant rear guard, becoming increasingly demanding until Sherlock responded with his. When they touched, a fresh shiver ran through Sherlock and _something_ tugged hard at his stomach, tingling through his body.

Blood shot into his cheeks when an uncontrolled sigh escaped him. He leaned into Victor as if someone had given him a shove. Of their own accord, his hands summoned the courage to touch Victor, to explore him. Fabric and heat and hair. Sherlock's fingers ran around the collar of Victor's t-shirt, balancing on the hem without touching skin, as if on the edge of a cliff. Then the leap. The play of muscles and tendons under his fingertips, here and there the jut of a bone. Sherlock imitated Victor's grip on the back of his neck, burying his fingers in Victor's blond mane of hair.

Sherlock blindly pursued Victor's promising mouth when he started to move away; before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was straddling Victor's legs with his arms wrapped around Victor's neck to prevent his retreat. His body was running on autopilot, his tongue surging in between Victor's lips, greedily seeking its counterpart. Finding it in an intimate embrace. Slippery and wet and _oh_ so good. Sherlock only vaguely registered the arms that had twined their way around his waist; hands crossing his slender back as if seeking something before finally grabbing hold. Sought and found. Chest to chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Eyes dark with desire. Sherlock paused, studying the other man's blissful expression. Frantic breaths on both their parts.

"That's... enough for now," Victor rasped. His fingers were still wandering absently across Sherlock's shoulder blade, idly probing its structure.

"How was that?" Sherlock wanted to know.

Victor cleared his throat and swallowed hard. "How was it for you?" he asked in lieu of a reply, taking his hands away and letting them rest uselessly on the carpet beside him. They wouldn't stop tingling.

"Different... good."

"Good. Yeah... erm..." Victor inclined his head to indicate that Sherlock should get off him.

Sherlock promptly obeyed the silent command, albeit with slight irritation. Something seemed to be wrong. Had he done something wrong?

"We should get some sleep. The sun will be up soon," Victor said and got up to turn the light off again.

Sherlock scrabbled back inside his sleeping bag, stretched out his long legs, and pulled the cover up to his chin. He waited until Victor was lying down too, Tom's empty sleeping bag between them. The sudden distance felt wrong. Sherlock could still feel a prickling sensation where their lips had touched, a slight burn where Victor's stubble had scratched him. He checked the area with his fingers but found only his own, familiar skin.

"I need more practise," Sherlock determined.

Victor responded with a sound that might have meant anything.

"Can we do it again?"

"Yes." Victor responded before he was able to stop the word.

"Good."

_Good..._

 

+++

tbc

 


	9. Monday, 03.09.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

Barely four weeks later, Ella Thompson issued a certification that allowed John to return to work. However, it was tied to two conditions. First, he was only to work half-days to start with in order not to overtax himself, since he was clearly not currently able to gauge stress levels accurately and respond in an appropriate manner. Second, he was required to find some way to balance out his daily routine. Fortunately, Ella had realised that writing a blog was no longer an option. The associations were too painful, the memories of his lost lover still too fresh. Ella had suggested a book club or cooking class. Something where John could get together with other people and form new acquaintances.

But John had just rolled his eyes and stared out the window. He had less than no interest in meeting new people. He would be amongst people anyway at the clinic, even if Ella didn't think the unequal patient-doctor relationship was sufficient. She wanted him to meet someone on equal footing, someone he could really let loose with.

"How's your leg?" Ella had asked him.

John let his gaze wander down to his knee and let out a long, drawn-out grunt. His chin was resting on his hand, his elbow propped up on the armrest of his chair.

"A little stiff," he mumbled, registering that Ella wrote something in her notebook. She always took special care that John couldn't read her notes, although he couldn't for the life of him fathom why. After all, they weren't discussing state secrets. She was probably worried that he would be able to get insights into her thought processes. To be sure, she wasn't the one being interrogated here.

He was surprised that she'd mentioned his leg. He hadn't had any trouble with it for over two years, since he'd moved into the Baker Street flat. Sherlock had taken care of that. He'd made John realise that it really was nothing more than a psychosomatic paralysis that disappeared as soon as enough adrenaline was being pumped through his blood vessels. And there had always been plenty of that around Sherlock.

Maybe Ella had noticed his somewhat wooden gait as John had entered her office. The pain hadn't returned, but the muscles in his right calf felt cramped and hard. Up to that moment, John had assumed it was just some tension. After all, he hadn't been sleeping well and he was always anxious, even more so since he'd been placed on medical leave. But now... was his body slowly but surely going to freeze up again and make him limp? Stamp _invalid_ on his forehead?

"Are you exercising?"

"Not any more..." It had been several weeks since _Smax_ had been shut down. In any event, John couldn't imagine returning there at this point after everything that had happened in connection with the gym. The affair with Greg had begun there, which had drawn the attention of that bastard Philip and landed John in hospital and in court. Then there was Bridget. His friend who had fallen into Moran's clutches, dealt drugs for him, and ended up paying with her life. One of the countless victims on Moriarty's conscience.

"As a doctor, you know that sport is an excellent counteractive to stress. You can usually participate with others, although it's not a must – even if I still strongly encourage you to mingle with other people. What did you use to do?"

John considered for a moment how to describe _Smax_ without setting off any alarm bells in his therapist's head. But maybe that's precisely what was needed in order to make it clear that something like golf wouldn't be enough for him.

"Full body contact combat sport... mixed martial arts. It … felt good. Back then. But the gym was shut down after it emerged that drug deals were going down there. I had nothing to do with it, of course – at least, not directly – but I crossed a couple of people who ended up having me charged with assault."

Ella gave John a long look, then frowned and made a note. "Was that the court case you spoke of?"

John nodded. "The whole thing was a setup. I never would have been found guilty if it had been above board. The three of them attacked me. I was just defending myself. I reported the incident to the police immediately, and it still..." John glanced off to one side, rubbing his chin with his thumb and index finger. He sighed softly. "The judge was obviously bribed. Sh...erlock's brother got wind of it after a bit and took care of things." John pursed his lips and stared down at his fingers, which were awkwardly tangled around each other. The ticking of the wall clock was the only sound in the room for several long moments.

"It must have been difficult to deal with being attacked because of your relationship with another man," Ella said calmly, watching John closely.

John lifted his head a couple of millimetres and gave her an assessing look. "It's generally difficult to deal with being lured into a trap and beaten up. No matter the reason," he said after a while.

"Of course," Ella agreed and wrote something down. "In any case, I think you should find a new activity. Something that challenges you. Maybe not specifically full body contact combat; that might well increase your aggressive tendencies. Something that tires you out, that gives you a sense of accomplishment. It would be good if you had some thoughts on it by our next meeting."

John took that to be the closing word for their session that day and checked the clock. The fifty minutes were up, and as usual, he wasn't the slightest bit wiser. The therapist handed John the papers for the chief of staff at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, certifying his limited competence to carry out his job, and set up an appointment for the following week.

John exhaled the air from his lungs, relieved, as the door to the therapist's office fell shut behind him. The sun was already setting, and a brisk wind had arisen. It was still warm enough to go without a jacket, however. John checked the time on his phone and decided to get something to eat. He walked the scant few metres to the main road, turned onto it, and joined the numerous other pedestrians there.

He stopped at a sandwich shop, considered for a moment, and finally went inside. He selected a pre-packaged sandwich with tomato, pesto, and mozzarella, went to the cashier, and ordered a cup of Earl Grey to go with it. After paying, he sat down on the outermost edge of the counter in front of the window, leaving room for at most one person next to him, unpacked his sandwich, and took a bite.

Although his body signalled that it was hungry and welcomed the influx of nourishment, John didn't find the sandwich very palatable. It was tasteless, the consistency strange somehow, and the chewed-up paste difficult to swallow. Even the tea was unsatisfying, bitterer than John liked it, and he'd forgot to ask for milk. He didn't want to add sugar, since it reminded him too strongly of Sherlock, who had always taken his tea sweet. A melancholy smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth when he recalled the time he'd drunk from Sherlock's cup once and made a disgusted face.

_'Want some tea with your sugar?'_ John had joked, but Sherlock had dismissed it with a roll of his eyes and lifted the cup to his lovely lips. _'How come you're not constantly at the dentist?_ '

John pushed the half-eaten sandwich away and looked out at the street through the window. His smile had dissolved into thin air. Instead, the memory made his throat tighten. Six weeks without Sherlock. Life went on, but for John the time seemed to be passing at a snail's pace. As thick as a river of viscous, black slime that swallowed up every positive thing. That filled every nook and cranny in his soul with a profound grief until there was nothing left other than an impenetrable coating.

All of a sudden, John's stomach cramped painfully, and he felt the food threatening to come back up. He held his hand in front of his mouth, leapt from the stool, and looked around hastily, but there was no loo for guests in the shop. He just barely managed to rush outside before vomiting. Shaking, he leaned against the wall of the building next door and spat the last dregs of gall on top of the disgusting remains of his sandwich.

"Are you all right?" one of the shop employees asked. She stood in the doorway of the shop, watching John with a grimace. She looked as if she were about to be sick any moment herself.

John looked down at the mess he'd made. Fortunately, he'd missed his shoes. Heat shot into his head, which was already far too warm and pounding in pain. He fumbled awkwardly in his trouser pocket for a tissue, until the woman handed him a serviette.

"I'm... I'm terribly sorry. Excuse me," he stammered and wiped his mouth. He wadded up the serviette and turned away, walking quickly down the street, practically running away from the embarrassing situation.

He walked to the next intersection, taking a moment to orient himself before finally deciding to take a bus in order to get home as quickly as possible. When he took his oyster card out of his pocket, he realised he was still holding onto the balled-up serviette. After running the card though the scanner, he stuffed everything back into his pocket.

Sighing, John took a seat by the window, crossed his arms, and leaned his head against the cool window pane, exhausted. He could not for the life of him explain what had just happened. It wasn't the first time he'd eaten at that chain of sandwich shops, so he assumed the products were all fine and the problem was with him. Not much had tasted very good lately, if he'd even got as far as trying anything. It was almost as if his body were refusing to accept nourishment in order to move on to the next plane of existence as quickly as possible.

John huffed out a short, frustrated laugh and wrapped his arms around himself more firmly. _Things can't go on like this... I need to do something._

Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He sat up straight and took it out, examining the display in consternation. The device had been set to silent for days now, apparently. Yet there had been no messages or calls. Almost as if the world had forgot John Watson.

_Are you home?_

Victor Trevor. What did he want now? They hadn't seen each other since their meeting at the cemetery and the spin round Camden Market; hadn't so much as texted or called. But John knew by now from experience that Victor usually meant trouble. He'd been attacked and injured by that youth in Camden – the same young man with connections to Sebastian Moran – while preventing John from confronting him. John didn't want to try and imagine what might have happened if it had come out that John had shot Moran. Not that the young man was any great danger in and of himself, but if he were mixed up in Moriarty's web somehow... the mere thought sent an icy shiver down John's spine.

_On my way. Why?_

_OK._

_OK..._ What kind of response was that? Muttering to himself, John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and looked out the window. There were still a few more stops to go. It was dark by now, and the street lights had come on.

John couldn't imagine what Victor's cryptic message meant. Did he want to meet up with him? Why didn't he just say so? Not that John was particularly keen on a meeting, but he had to admit that the story Victor had told last time made him curious. After all, Victor had known Sherlock much longer – almost twenty years – and therefore knew a lot of things that John could never find out otherwise. Things that would always remain hidden from him. Maybe Victor would be willing to divulge a little more, even if John wasn't sure whether he could handle any more intimate details.

When John turned onto Baker Street, he could already make out the figure sitting on the steps of 221B from a distance. Victor stood and lifted a hand in greeting. He had the sunglasses with blue lenses that they'd bought in Camden perched on his nose, and was wearing tight, dark blue jeans and a white shirt, open at the collar and hanging loosely over his trousers. He pushed his blond hair back out of his face with the sunglasses, and John saw the dark circles under his eyes. John must not be the only one losing sleep at night. The only thing was, he didn't know whether Victor was grieving or already out partying again.

A lopsided smile appeared on Victor's face, as if he'd read John's thoughts and found them amusing.

"Hey," he said curtly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, which had the effect of making him look rather shy, an image that didn't suit Victor at all.

"Hey..." John replied suspiciously as he dug out his keys. "So? What's this about?" he wanted to know. He swung his key ring back and forth between his finger and the palm of his hand.

"I... wanted to see how you were doing..."

John curled his lips and glanced to the side. "How do you suppose I'm doing?"

Victor sighed unhappily and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Yeah... I know what you mean. I feel the same... Listen, John, this might be weird and I'd understand if you didn't want to, but... aside from myself, you're the only one who knew Sherlock; who saw more in him than the Consulting Detective, the blabbermouth and the pain in the neck he also was... There isn't anyone else I can talk to about Sherlock. Other than you. And I don't know, but..." Victor bit his lip and his hands curled visibly into fists inside his pockets. "Shit..."

Talk... about Sherlock. The offer was both incredibly tempting and utterly horrifying. On the one hand, John wanted nothing more than to find out everything there was to know about Sherlock. On the other, he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it from Victor of all people, who had had something like a relationship with Sherlock over such a long period of time. How much would John be able to take before he broke?

"Why don't you come in at least," John heard himself saying. He unlocked the black door and went into the building. They went upstairs to the kitchen together, where without any ado, John reached for the kettle, filled it, and turned it on.

"I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable," John said and went into the bathroom to rinse the acidic taste out of his mouth and clean his teeth. After washing his face and hands as well, he returned to the kitchen and prepared the tea. He leaned back to glance into the living room.

"Do you take milk with your tea?"

Victor was standing with his back to John next to Sherlock's chair, running his hand over the leather seat back. The sight triggered a strange sensation in John. It hurt to see his own grief reflected in the other man, his profound helplessness.

John put two cups and the teapot on a tray and brought everything into the living room. He set it down deliberately on the coffee table in order to avoid the embarrassing necessity of having to explain to Victor that he shouldn't sit in Sherlock's chair. John was well aware, of course, how ridiculous it was, but he couldn't help being defensive about Sherlock's seat. Maybe it would get easier. Some day.

From his spot on the sofa, John observed Victor as he let his eyes wander over the overflowing bookshelves, taking in all of the little things Sherlock had left behind. All the books and bits and bobs that had collected in the course of his lifetime.

Victor snorted in amusement. "It's all still here... I was sure you'd have cleared everything out by now."

John shook his head slowly. "Only in the bedroom. I brought his clothes upstairs and packed up his papers, but I couldn't throw anything away. It would feel wrong; so... final." John felt uncomfortable under the searching look Victor sent his way. He realised he should be more forceful in this regard, that he was just torturing himself and would do better to separate himself from all of these lifeless objects – after all, they weren't going to bring Sherlock back. He reached for his tea and took a sip. The heat did his upset stomach good.

Victor had turned around to inspect the bookshelves again, skimming the titles of the books, pulling one out here and there and reading the blurbs on the back covers. Thus distracted, he didn't notice the cardboard box filled with papers that stood between John's armchair and the fireplace. He tripped over it, knocking it over. The cardboard flaps opened, spilling a large number of loose papers, notebooks, and letters onto the floor.

"Oh bloody hell, sorry about that," Victor apologised and put the book in his hand back on the shelf.

John leapt to his feet and went over to him, asking if he'd hurt himself. Victor replied in the negative and crouched down next to the box to right it. Together, they put the papers back inside.

"Oh!" Victor paused in surprise. He was holding an envelope between his index finger and his thumb. He examined it, enthralled, before turning it over and showing it to John. It was an unmarked, yellowed envelope whose top edge had been cleanly slit open with a letter opener. A silhouette of a bird in flight was printed in black ink in the top right corner.

"This looks familiar."

"It is from you?" John asked, somewhat irritated, and continued tidying up.

"No... If I'm not mistaken, this is one of the letters Sherlock and I fought over once..."

John looked up in surprise and watched as Victor took a piece of paper folded once out of the envelope and opened it up.

"Yes... this is one of them." Without further commentary, he handed the letter to John, who took it and read the sparse lines.

_My dear W,_

_How many more times are you going to kiss that frog? He'll never become a prince. Not even a loyal servant is worth so much sentimentality._

_SH_

 

+++

tbc

 

 

 


	10. Wednesday, 12.09.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

John's left hand unconsciously clenched into a fist over and over again as he stared at the paint peeling off the door. He'd been standing in front of the schoolhouse for a full five minutes, not daring to take another step. In his right hand, he held his mobile phone with the address saved. It was barely more than a hop, skip, and a jump from Euston Square, and yet the busy train station and the school seemed to exist in two entirely separate worlds.

He could make out gloomy hallways through the glass pane in the door. It was dusk already, the sun was going down, and all of the children were long since at home. A few lamps on the brick walls flared to life, casting orange-tinged light onto the gravel between the buildings. John jerked in alarm when footsteps crunching behind him became louder against the background noise of the city.

He squared his shoulders, turned around, and got a good look at the man who was approaching. A lurking fear still sat heavy in John's gut, reminding him of the trap he'd fallen into a couple of months ago. The rational part of his brain tried to convince him that that had been an exception, but that barely touched the restless undercurrent running through him.

The man had black hair hanging greasily across his forehead, along with a black beard. He was wearing jeans and a green button-down shirt. With one hand, he was holding the straps of the blue sports bag he had slung over his shoulder. He raised his other hand in a friendly greeting.

"Hallo, are you looking for something?" His voice was deep but not unfriendly.

John swallowed past the dryness in his throat and nodded once. "Kickboxing," was his curt response, as his darting gaze automatically calculated the probability of an attack.

"You've got the right place then. The gym's behind the main building. Come on, I'm on my way there now. My name's Peter."

John stared at the extended hand for a moment longer than necessary before finally grasping it and giving it a quick squeeze. He pushed his sports bag up onto his shoulder and followed the other man.

"John..." he replied shortly.

"Are you a beginner?"

"Not exactly... although I haven't focused on kickboxing on its own much."

"What then?"

Inquisitive. John wasn't sure whether he liked that or not. After all, he wasn't about to spread the entire story of his life out in front of this stranger.

"Mixed martial arts," he answered shortly, not receiving anything more than a grunt of acknowledgement. Maybe this Peter fellow had taken the hint that John didn't want to talk. Or maybe he just thought he was shy.

They walked together across the school yard to a two-storey building with a flat roof. Inside, they were greeted by the usual smells of rubber and the potpourri of human effluvia.

Peter pointed to the left. A window set into the interior wall afforded a view of the office behind it. An older man sat behind a desk, while a woman explained something about a piece of paper which she was holding in front of him.

"You can register over there. The changing rooms are down the hall on the right. See you later!" Peter walked off in the direction of the changing rooms, not turning around again.

John paused a moment to get an impression of the facilities. It was a typical school gymnasium. Some of the walls had doors set into the wood panelling, behind which equipment would likely be stored. Lines for volleyball, football, and basketball courts were marked out in various colours on the greenish floor. Trainers had left countless black scuff marks, testifying of the space being in constant use. Basketball nets attached to the ceiling now lay in horizontal position, but could be lowered by means of a switch. A series of narrow windows were set into the walls just below the ceiling and covered with nets so that no balls could escape outside.

Just as John was about to go over to the office, he saw two women coming out of the changing area. They were both wearing long black trousers and tight black tops. They chatted together as they opened up one of the equipment rooms and disappeared inside.

"Good evening, may I help you?" the old man from the office asked, now leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. He spoke in a tone of familiarity, as if he and John had known each other for a while already.

"Erm... hello. My name's John Watson. I'd like to do a trial training session... if that's allowed."

"Of course," the man said with a casual shrug. "Go change and jump in. There are enough people here for everyone to have a partner. The changing rooms are over there." He gave John an encouraging smile and went back inside the office, where he sat down at the desk with a sigh. John could tell right away that the elderly man was in pain. Likely an issue with his hip, probably caused by a fall.

Frowning, John went over to the changing rooms. The sexes were separated here, unlike at _Smax_. John found Peter along with three other men in the small men's room. Since it was a school facility, there weren't any lockers. The athletes simply put their street clothes into their bags and stowed their shoes under the benches.

John changed in silence. After slipping into his knee-length shorts and college t-shirt, tying his trainers, and placing his bag on the bench behind the door, he returned to the main hall. Peter gave him a friendly look with a lopsided smile, which John returned fleetingly.

Aside from John, the group consisted of four men and three women, all dressed in black tracksuit bottoms and tops. They were standing in two rows, although without any visible order.

The woman who had been in the office earlier with the old man came out to join them. Her outfit differed from the others in that her sleeves and trousers were trimmed with a red stripe. Sinewy muscles were clearly defined beneath the olive-toned skin of her upper arms. Her curly black hair was tied back in a bun.

"Hello everyone, nice to see you. It looks like we have a guest today!" Pearly-white teeth gleamed at John, and her prompting expression spoke loudly.

John cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Er... hallo. I'm John... yeah." John felt ridiculous. He didn't know what else he should tell the others about himself. Something about his job? His experience? None of that was any of their business. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the fact that they might recognise him from the papers. So he didn't say anything.

"Hi John, my name's Shari." Why did all of these formulaic greetings sound so much like a self-help group? John just barely managed not to roll his eyes in annoyance. "I'm one of the coaches and I'm here every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. Nigel is here on the other days. As you probably already know, classic kickboxing forms the basis here, but in the advanced class we combine it with other martial art techniques. Going by your posture, I assume you already have experience with combat sports?"

John squared his shoulders automatically as if to confirm her assumption. "Correct... I started with wrestling, but I've also had a few lessons in tae-kwon-do, karate, a little judo... hm... I've also done a little kickboxing, but I'd like to improve my technique."

"Oh, looks like we've got a real all-rounder here!" Shari said with an encouraging smile, which John only returned half-heartedly. The instructor could hardly be sincere with her compliment; after all, she'd never seen him fight. She probably just wanted him to feel at ease amongst so many strangers. It was incredibly annoying. "Where did you train before?"

"At... erm... the gym's not around any more," John said evasively. But Shari wouldn't let go. She kept at him until John gave the name. It was all but physically palpable how the atmosphere in the room shifted. Of course John might have insisted that he had nothing to do with the crooked dealings at _Smax_ , that he hadn't known anything about the drug deals – or even better, that he'd even acted to counter them. But what would be the point? He'd seen all too often how quickly people formed opinions and wouldn't change them. Drawers stuffed full with a few incomplete bits of information and then locked shut. Ridiculous.

Instead, he tried to act as relaxed as possible. Self-confident. Unshakeable. Peter finally agreed to partner with him. After warming up, they did a few exercises as directed by Shari. They switched off practising kicks and punches with the assistance of punching bags. John got a few tips on his posture and technique, but there was no actual fighting.

He was bored to death.

Following the practise session, Shari approached John. The rest of the class members cleaned up and went into the changing rooms.

"So? Did you enjoy the session, John?"

John put on a forced smile. "It was... nice." Too nice. "I learned a lot," he lied and made an effort to keep the corners of his mouth pointing up. Shari twisted her mouth and lifted an eyebrow disparagingly.

"Oh, come on. I saw you almost falling asleep. This here is nothing compared to that 'Fight Club', but at least there are no illegal deals going down here."

"I had nothing to do with that," John huffed, bristling.

"I wasn't trying to insinuate that you did, John. But I knew right off the bat that this wasn't going to do it for you. Maybe you should try Nigel's class; he's in charge of the advanced group. Feel free to let him know I sent you because you're not challenged enough here," Shari said with a wink and a smile before she turned away and went to change.

 

*****

 

Back on Baker Street, John got into the shower, then made himself a couple of sandwiches. He sat at the kitchen table and chewed unenthusiastically, letting his gaze slide across the furnishings. Hardly anything had changed since he'd been living here alone, but without Sherlock's chaos, the flat felt downright lifeless. No ominous experiments in the microwave, no undefined body parts in the freezer.

_Dull_.

The word echoed in John's mind. He wished for nothing more than to hear Sherlock's voice. Even if it were just his whinging, his complaints over the fact that there was no case for him to solve, that the world – and Mycroft in particular – had it out for him. Or his endless monologues about ash. Deducing chat-show guests.

Being close to him.

His skin...

John swallowed hard. He got up and ran some tap water into a glass, drank it, refilled it, and drank all of that too. It wasn't enough. He went into the living room with the empty glass, set it down on the desk, and reached for the whiskey bottle he'd already started. He raised it to his mouth and took a large sip. It burned like fire in John's throat before the whiskey's embers spread in his stomach, sending a warm tingling sensation into his body. Calming his flighty nerves.

After one more sip, he set the bottle down and let his gaze wander across the desk. That strange letter still lay there, the one he'd come across with Victor a couple of days ago. The scant lines had been typewritten. Obviously one of the old models with type bars, which was indicated by the irregular margins of the letters. Some of the letters had sharp edges or notches because the typefaces had been scratched after years of use and the marks had transferred onto the paper through the ribbon.

_How many more times are you going to kiss that frog? He'll never become a prince. Not even a loyal servant is worth so much sentimentality._

John thought back uneasily to the conversation with Victor.

The letter had been lying on Victor's desk. He and Sherlock had been living together at the time. Sherlock hadn't been willing to explain what it was about. They'd rowed – again. Sherlock was in the midst of packing his things up.

What was the reference supposed to mean? Who was W? Victor had been frustrated by Sherlock's refusal to explain himself.

_'Why are you of all people the one giving tips on how to run a relationship?'_

_"It was a difficult time,"_ Victor had said vaguely. Something must have happened shortly before, but he hadn't wanted to go into it. At any rate, Sherlock had refused to say anything more about the letter, so Victor hadn't had any choice but to draw his own conclusions. Maybe Sherlock had found someone else, maybe he'd simply wanted to make Victor jealous. Provoke emotions. The same emotions he was warning W about.

Maybe Victor had just been so hurt by it because he had the evidence once again that a relationship with Sherlock wasn't possible in the long run.

It wasn't just Sherlock's fault; Victor knew that. But it was easier to hold him responsible for it.

John emptied his glass and refilled it.

It hadn't escaped him that Sherlock and Victor's relationship had lots of ups and down. It hurt to consider it. To consider that Sherlock had probably been in love and at the same time had fought against it. That Victor, who didn't want a relationship – at least not currently – had been virtually compelled to return to Sherlock over and over, because... he simply couldn't help it. Like a moth to a flame.

John let the last few drops of whiskey dribble out of the bottle into the glass, and drank them. He felt dizzy. He sat down in the Le Corbusier, exhausted, and drew up his legs, turning to one side so that he could nestle his face against the cool leather. It was comforting and painful at the same time.

_Why did Victor let Sherlock go? Why didn't he stop his bloody ego from hurting Sherlock?_ John wondered, grinding his teeth unhappily. He couldn't stop thinking about a young Sherlock who was just learning what it meant to feel affection for another person. What had happened back then that made Sherlock decide not to allow any further sentiment?

John thought about Mycroft, who appeared to be even more rigorous in that regard than his younger brother had been. Even if Sherlock certainly never would have admitted it, Mycroft had definitely had a formative influence on his manner of thinking and his actions. Was Mycroft responsible for Sherlock's belief that emotions were a bad thing? That they were an obvious disadvantage to the losing side?

_I wonder how his parents are doing..._

Mr and Mrs Holmes must have been very standoffish, distant parents. What other explanation was there for the fact that both of their sons had developed into the people they were today? Or rather, had been...

John's insides cramped painfully, squeezing into a hard knot. He felt a renewed burning behind his eyelids; his breath caught. He forcefully exhaled the air from his lungs and got up. He staggered a little as he went into the kitchen and opened one of the cupboards to take out another bottle of whiskey. As he unscrewed the lid, the seal broke in his grip, cutting into the skin of his palm. A glance into the living room confirmed that he'd left his glass there. Rather than fetching it or taking out a new one, he brought the bottle back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch with it.

He drank a few sips of the amber-coloured liquid directly from the bottle, then set it down on the coffee table and dug his phone out of his pocket. He rolled drowsily onto his side, pulled his legs up onto the seat, and scrolled through the menu. The last few messages Sherlock had sent him were still in his inbox.

_Something important I meant to say_ _… I love you – SH_

John tried to breathe evenly, tried to blink away the tears that came unbidden to cloud his vision. Frowning, he scrolled down to the last message.

_Moriarty is on Southwark Bridge. Let Lestrade and his team search the theatre and come to the bridge! – SH_

Sherlock couldn't have wanted all of that to happen. It was unthinkable that he'd wanted John to see him and Moriarty fall into the Thames. It was much more likely that he'd hoped for assistance. Assistance that John hadn't been able to give him after all. Because he'd been saving Victor's life. Because he'd tripped on his way to the bridge and lost several valuable seconds.

Moriarty... that miserable bastard. The messages he'd sent John to lure him to the Rose Playhouse were also still there. John couldn't bring himself to delete them. They were too closely tied to the events that had torn Sherlock out of his life.

_Oh, Dr Watson, that wasn't very clever of you. The longer you wait, the more certain it is that our Sleeping Beauty will fall into an eternal sleep!_

John read Moriarty's final message several times. Something niggled at his subconscious, but he couldn't quite pin it down. Something that was completely obvious, and yet... he couldn't reach it through the fog of the drink. John furrowed his brow and gave up, turning onto his back. The pounding in his head stayed with him until he fell asleep.

Until the dark figures rose over London and waded through the Thames on long legs.

 

+++

 

tbc

 

 

 


	11. Monday, 01.10.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

It wasn't like at _Smax_. The practise hours were proscribed. It wasn't possible to come and go as one pleased. There were a lot more rules to follow. Full contact was forbidden. Even if both opponents wanted to stage a real fight, they weren't allowed.

Nigel kept a close eye on things. The sharp-eyed coach was in charge of the advanced group. He'd been practising kickboxing and taekwondo for years, had received numerous awards, and wasn't even thirty years old yet. His technique was excellent. Every punch, every kick was cleanly executed. Like in a training manual.

John doubted Nigel had ever been in a real fight. Despite his dominant posture and his sinewy muscles, he didn't seem to have the right presence. It was as if all of his sharp angles and edges had been sanded down. Like comparing a fight scene staged in a movie to a real duel.

Nigel didn't particularly like John. John had realised that during their first session. Shari had probably told him about John's past at _Smax_. As a result, Nigel's first impression of John was made in connection with the terms 'drugs' and 'violent', and had been filed away in that drawer in his head. John didn't have any influence on whether Nigel might change his mind at some point. But he didn't really care whether the coach liked him or not, as long as he could conjure up the illusion of old times for a couple of hours a week. Even if it was the harmless version.

In fact, John learned quite a bit during the first two weeks in Nigel's group. He liked the mix of kickboxing and taekwondo. He would have liked nothing more than to integrate his newly gained skills with his previous knowledge and try them out, but that was hardly going to happen here. Instead, he polished his execution and concentrated on the resilient striking shields during the pair exercises.

"We have two new members."

John interrupted the combination of punches he was delivering to the sand-filled sack and turned around. A man and a woman were standing next to Nigel. John knew the man already.

"Peter's joining us from the beginners' group. He's improved a lot in the last few months and is looking for a fresh challenge. I'm sure we can offer that to him here!" Nigel said with an enthusiastic whoop.

The others joined in the happy clamour and welcomed Peter as well. John rolled his eyes in annoyance. The team spirit simply didn't want to ignite in him. It took a concerted effort for him to force a small smile onto his lips when Peter looked over and gave John a friendly nod.

His eye fell on the woman at Nigel's side. She had short, light blond hair and dark blue eyes. An impish smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth as her gaze skimmed across the others, as if she couldn't wait to jump into the fray. She had her hands folded behind her back while she bounced impatiently on the balls of her feet.

"And this is Mary," Nigel announced, dropping his arm over the woman's shoulders and pulling her in with a friendly squeeze. "Tell us something about yourself."

Mary looked up at Nigel with a smile, then addressed the group. "Yeah, all right. Well... I was born in London, but I only moved back here recently after working for three years in Cape Town. I'm still amazed how much has changed in the time I was gone. I've been doing taekwondo for seven or eight years, and I wanted to get back into training again as soon as possible in order not to fall out of practise. So... if there's anything else you want to know about me, just ask."

The two newcomers integrated themselves quickly into the group. It barely took three weeks before they had become regulars with those who got together after the sessions. John wasn't really interested. He didn't want to go out on weekdays, since he was still stuck working the early shifts at St. Bartholomew's Hospital and couldn't afford to show up anything less than well rested. After all, he wanted to resume his full schedule as soon as possible.

John also preferred spending his free time alone at the weekend. He told his therapist that he met up with some of the club members from time to time, but that was more for the purpose of garnering an acknowledging smile and appeasing her until their next meeting.

The only exception was the text messages that he and Victor exchanged now and then, or the occasional coffee they drank somewhere. John didn't know why they did it. Maybe they felt a certain duty towards each other. John, who didn't want to lose sight of his erstwhile patient; and Victor, who felt... guilty? Maybe it was simply the notion of having a connection that had snuck in after Sherlock's death. An unsteady bond, knotted together from the fragments of their memories.

Whatever it was, John couldn't – and didn't want to – put a label on it. But it was all right. He didn't feel any resentment toward Sherlock and Victor's previous relationship anymore. Or at least that's what he told himself. There wasn't anything he could change about it anyway. The Sherlock whom Victor had known differed in many ways from the one John had met and come to love. He had no doubt that the younger Sherlock would have meant just as much to him, but that was a train of thought that wasn't worth pursuing.

They hadn't spoken about the past again in a while. Actually, they increasingly avoided speaking of Sherlock at all. Although John would have liked to know more about how Sherlock and Victor had found their way to each other, something kept stopping him from asking. As if the mere thought of asking the question were enough to make his throat close up.

Victor seemed to be aware of it, and therefore didn't even offer to continue the story.

The London weather became cooler. Most of the trees in Regent's Park were already dropping their yellow and brown foliage. One Saturday evening near the beginning of November, John left the gymnasium following a session, ready to go home and make himself something to eat. He'd probably watch a movie and round out the evening in a nice, quiet manner.

"John?"

He stopped abruptly in his tracks and turned around. Mary had just come out of the building and was walking purposefully toward him. A few strands of blonde hair had escaped her hair grips. Red cheeks and an impish grin on her lips emphasised the untamed energy that radiated from the woman. They'd barely exchanged three words up to now, but John had watched her once or twice.

Nigel often praised her for her enthusiasm, but John was secretly convinced that Nigel wouldn't stand a chance in a real fight against her. Mary had accepted his attempts to correct her, the few times he'd done so, but she seemed to sneer at them when he wasn't looking. More than once, in those situations, she'd looked over at John and rolled her eyes with a grin, as if they were sharing a secret.

She was likeable. Maybe, John thought, in a different time, he might have already asked her out on a date. Maybe he still would sometime in the future, if... if he ever forgot... no. He'd never be able to forget Sherlock. But surely the pain would lessen at some point? Make room for something else?

"Join me for a drink? I know you don't like going with the larger group, but... we could ditch them and have a quiet chat. What do you say?"

_Oh_. Mary didn't seem to be put off by his status as a loner. John scratched the back of his head, embarrassed, and let his gaze wander across the school yard. He was flattered by the invitation to some extent, but...

"John! Ready to go?"

John startled when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. Irritated, he glanced up at the man standing to his left, who was giving Mary a disparaging look.

"Hallo," Mary said, looking back and forth between Victor and John with an amused expression on her face.

"Victor... wh-what are you doing here?" John couldn't recall ever having given Victor the club's address. It was true that he'd told Victor he was doing sports again, but he certainly hadn't wanted Victor to come here. John couldn't say why it was a problem for him. Maybe he didn't want Victor to see this side of him or interfere in any way. And now that's exactly what was happening.

"I wanted to surprise you," Victor replied, drawing John closer.

John twisted out of the embrace, pushing back on Victor's chest. "Stop it!"

"Well then! I'll see you next week, John," Mary said and waved to the two of them before turning around to join the group that was just leaving the gymnasium.

John huffed angrily and adjusted the strap of his sports duffel over his shoulder, using the same motion to swivel away from Victor and walk toward the gate. Victor hooked his thumbs into his pockets and followed, bumping him lightly with his elbow.

"Do you fancy her?"

"That's none of your business. How did you even know I was here?"

The usual smirk appeared on Victor's lips as he answered: "I dropped by your place, but you weren't there and didn't respond to my texts, so I asked Mrs Hudson where you were. She told me you were at the gym. Somewhere near Euston Square. And since there aren't that many kickboxing clubs around here... It was a bit of a shot in the dark, but obviously a good one," Victor declared with a conspiratorial wink.

"You really spent too much time with Sherlock..." John said, shaking his head and smiling faintly.

Victor shrugged and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket, took one out, and lit it.

"Somewhere between too much and too little..." he said and blew the smoke toward the dark sky.

John pressed his lips together into a thin line and nodded curtly. He would have liked to take back what he said, but at least Victor didn't seem to hold the comment against him.

"How are you doing, John?" Victor asked with a thin smile.

"All right, I guess." John shrugged, not sure whether he could expand on the answer without lying.

"You should let your hair down, John. Have some fun. Let loose. Let it all hang out without thinking about everything that's happened lately. Just get away from it all," Victor said and took a drag on his cigarette.

John shook his head incredulously. The smile didn't disappear from his face, but it didn't reflect any joy. "And you think it's that easy?"

"It is easy – if you don't have any expectations. Listen, I know you're not exactly keen on mingling with people, but give me a chance to pull you out of these doldrums, all right? Let's go have a drink, celebrate a little..."

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. What was the point of all this? Parties were absolutely the last thing he was thinking of at the moment, and besides, he hadn't been to one in forever. Just as he took a breath to tell Victor what a stupid idea he thought it was, he noticed the restlessness in Victor's body. He was virtually vibrating with nerves. His eyes darted back and forth, and his fingers were in constant motion.

_Maybe I'm not the one who needs distracting tonight_... John thought and nodded slowly, as if to confirm his decision.

"Okay, fine, Victor... but I have to go home first, have a shower, and change. I can't very well do a pub tour like this," John said, plucking at his sweaty shirt.

Victor relaxed visibly. "We could go to mine, I live just around the corner. That will save time."

"Right... okay. If you say so." John trotted along with Victor, not truly convinced by the suggestion. He knew Victor's flat was one street away, on Drummond Street, although he'd always avoided going past it on his way to the club. He'd been at Victor's once following their trip to Camden Market, but after that they'd only met up outside or at Baker Street.

"It's inconvenient that the school doesn't have any showers," John mentioned when he set his duffel down next to the door to Victor's flat and took off his jacket and shoes.

Victor grunted his agreement and went into the kitchen to fetch a beer from the fridge. "The bath's all yours. Towels are on the shelf. Help yourself."

"Okay." John didn't wait around, going straight to the bathroom. He closed the door after himself and turned the key. Not that he thought Victor would come in after him, but he didn't intend to find out. He peeled off his clothes, folded his trousers, and set them on the counter next to the sink. He dropped his sweaty shirt and vest onto the floor. Once the water was warm, he stepped into the shower and examined all of the plastic bottles that were standing there.

Victor's soap and shampoo weren't as exclusive as Sherlock's, but they were still in a higher price bracket than the products John usually used. Rolling his eyes, John washed himself quickly, trying not to imagine how often Sherlock must have stood in this very shower. Instead, he thought about what he was in for. It was a friendly turn – nothing more, nothing less.

Should he be flattered that Victor had sought out his company, or wanted to have him close by during a difficult time? Was it John's job to keep an eye on Victor so he didn't get into trouble? John couldn't imagine that Victor had avoided going out entirely since Sherlock's death, but if it were really the case, then he might actually be... scared. After all, he'd nearly died the last time he'd supposedly been heading for a nightclub. Even if it had all been a setup.

John sighed and rinsed the rest of the lather off. He didn't want to remember that day. Not now. Just for a couple of hours, he wanted to pretend that none of it had happened. Or at least, that none of it had happened to him. He'd bury the pain for just a couple of hours and not be John Watson; instead, he'd be someone who didn't waste any thought on the past or the future.

He turned off the taps, got out of the shower, and dried off. He opened the mirrored cabinet over the sink, looking for a comb or a hairbrush. He found dental hygiene items, various hair care products and creams, along with a square box. Frowning, John took it out and read the name of the medication. It was a relatively strong sleeping aid. One and a half of the two bubbles were empty. John sighed and put the box back, then took out the comb and ran it quickly through his hair.

He reluctantly stepped back into his underwear and jeans – it wasn't optimal, but he didn't want to have to borrow underpants from Victor on top of everything else. After hanging up the towel, he grabbed his vest and shirt from the floor and left the bathroom to go to his duffel bag and stuff the dirty items inside.

Victor was sitting on the couch, his left elbow resting on the seat back. A cigarette was wedged between his index and middle fingers, slowly smouldering. The ash at its tip was already drooping under its own weight. Victor's inward-directed gaze came into focus the moment John came in. He rescued the ashes in the ashtray on the table and took one more drag before stubbing the cigarette out.

"Okay..." John said as he walked toward Victor. "I just need a shirt or something. You'll have to help me out." He couldn't help noticing the pointed look taking in his naked upper body before Victor silently pointed toward a square of fabric lying on the arm of the couch. John decided to ignore the look. It was probably unavoidable that they more or less deliberately measured themselves up against each other; after all, Sherlock had found both of them attractive.

John reached for the shirt, slipped into it, and buttoned it up. The black material draped coolly across his skin. He couldn't say what the cloth was, but it looked expensive. The sleeves were a little long for John, so he rolled them up.

"We need to do something about your hair," Victor said and got up to go into the bathroom. He returned a few seconds later, rubbing his fingers together in a circular motion, and reached for John's head. John just barely managed not to look too sceptical as Victor tugged at his hair. Victor examined his work with a satisfied grin and went to wash his hands.

John took a big sip of the beer that was on the table, then went to the hallway to put on his shoes. "Remind me that I'm leaving my bag here," John said and straightened the collar of his jacket.

Victor nodded and pulled on his leather jacket. He was uncharacteristically quiet. John sighed softly and clapped his hand on Victor's shoulder in a feeble effort to cheer him up.

"Where are we going, anyway?" John wanted to know once they were sitting in a carriage on the Victoria line. He examined his image in the window pane across from him. Victor had done quite a good job. John wasn't used to wearing his hair combed back, but he quite liked it. He normally had it cut shorter, but he'd been putting off his usual visit to the barber for a few weeks now.

"Soho," Victor answered shortly.

"I thought so," John said, rolling his eyes. There was a reason for all the nightclubs and bars in Soho. "I meant a little more precisely."

Victor just gave John a conspiratorial smile in lieu of a response, letting his eyes wander over the other passengers. It was already after eleven; most of the night owls had already landed at their destinations a while ago, but Victor was absolutely certain that the nightclub he wanted to visit didn't have a closing time.

They rode to the Oxford Circus station and walked from there. They left the well-lit shopping area after just a few metres, turning down a lane where the first few pubs awaited them. It was cold. John stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and wished he'd brought a pullover, but presumably Victor would have talked him out of it anyway.

Victor led him on a single-minded path through Soho's labyrinth of lanes and alleyways, past drunk patrons on a pilgrimage from one nightclub to the next, chattering at the top of their lungs, singing and carousing. Down an unobtrusive side street, a man dressed entirely in black stood in front of an equally black door. The corner of his mouth twitched when Victor raised his hand in greeting, and all of a sudden John understood.

"You can't be serious!"

"What?!" Victor said, stopping abruptly in his tracks, a combination of frustration and disbelief in his tone. He looked down at John, his lips pressed together, and glared at him. John would probably have gotten angry if he hadn't seen the glint of insecurity that flashed across Victor otherwise self-assured face.

"Why here? What are you doing?! God... Victor, I..." John was torn. He could well imagine why Victor wanted to come here of all places, and why John needed to be here. But as for himself, he wasn't nearly as certain whether he was ready to face this challenge.

"John. This... is important to me. I don't want to give up my freedom just because I can't manage to take this step on my own. And I don't trust anyone but you right now. So do me this favour, all right?"

One long indrawn breath later, John nodded curtly. "All right."

The bouncer gave them free passage, and together they went down the stairs into the purple netherworld.

 

+++

tbc

 


	12. Saturday, 17.11.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

The hollow _clang! clang!_ of the metal stairs under John's feet was something he felt more than heard. It buzzed up his calves and was only interrupted by the rhythmic beat coming from the loudspeakers distributed strategically around the room.

The music immediately infiltrated every muscle of any body that unwittingly approached; luring it in, eventually dragging it into its wake and holding it hostage. Before you knew it, you'd surrendered part of yourself to the dance without having made a conscious decision to do so, all without taking a single step. The beat reverberated dully through nerve pathways and blood vessels, spreading until it overtook your own heartbeat.

John was inundated by warm air saturated with thousands of smells of the sort that gathered in closed spaces. Countless nuances, barely perceptible, already forgotten. Too many to register and identify. The tip of John's tongue pressed automatically against his upper incisors and hard palate as if wanting to analyse the scents by taste.

The people were packed in so tightly on the dance floor that John could barely tell them apart. it was more like flashes of disconnected clips – a neck here, the twist of a shoulder there, a swing of a hip. One glimpse, another glimpse, then another. The entire world took on a different appearance at the next change of the red-blue-violet lights. Any orientation that had just been gained, shattered in the blink of an eye.

Trying to find the familiar blond mane was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. When he finally found Victor – barely three steps away – John hardly dared to blink. Without letting the figure out of his sight, he exhaled forcefully through his nose, pushing the feeling of trepidation out through his lungs, and grabbed hold.

The leather between his fingers was still cool from the November air, and as soft as butter. Victor turned around to face him, a smile tugging at the left-hand corner of his mouth, as if John had reeled him in by it. A fish on a hook. One flick of his wrist that set off a millisecond of panic in John ( _don't leave me alone!_ ). Words that were drowned out by the music somewhere between mouth and ear. Fingers reaching for his decisively. Holding on, pulling. And suddenly John was the fish on the hook, letting himself be reeled in through the sea of bodies.

He staggered into the open, stumbling against Victor's shoulder, and raised his free hand in an apologetic gesture. The only response was an understanding smile, it being too loud to communicate in any other way. It was quieter off the dance floor. Less crowded, more of the stuffy air to breathe. Victor let go of John's clammy fingers and grabbed both of his lapels to straighten his jacket with a quick jerk. A tilt of the head, a questioning look.

John performed something between a shrug and a nod, which earned him another smile. He followed Victor to the coat-check, which for some strange reason wasn't near the entrance to Deep Purple, but close to the bar. John dug his phone out of his jacket and stuffed it into his trouser pocket before dragging the heavy-duty article off his shoulders and passing it to Victor.

While Victor communicated using hand signals with the young man behind the counter and handed him the jacket, John ventured a glance in the direction of the bar. There was a passageway between it and the rear section of the club. Vague and mysterious, purple-hued shapes were all he could make out; the details of the people back there were swallowed up in the darkness.

A man was leaning against the wall right next to the entrance to that surreal world; he had his right leg angled up, propped against the wall, with his arms crossed. His upper body was clothed only in a leather vest; skin-tight jeans and black Doc Martens completed his outfit. When he noticed John's unwitting stare, he smiled and dragged his incisors meaningfully across his lower lip.

An arm wrapped itself around John's neck, and lips hovered close to his ear. Warm breath tickled the back of his neck.

"Don't stare like that, or you'll have him on your tail in a second," Victor said above the music, yet no louder than a whisper. He patted John's backside in the same breath, as if to underscore his words. He moved away from John right away, though, winking at him and going over to the bar.

John followed obediently, not daring to meet any stranger's eye for more than a fraction of a second.

Victor apparently knew the bartender and greeted him amiably; in return, two shot glasses with schnaps slid across the bar to him.

"On the house!" The bartender's words were barely understandable amidst the general noise.

John took the second glass and raised it in a gesture of thanks to the man behind the bar. He toasted Victor and tossed back the clear liquid. Victor lifted two fingers in the air to order more drinks. John reached for the bottle of beer that was set in front of him and took a big sip. A spicy prickling on his tongue, quickly followed by a warm sensation in his stomach. The alcohol calmed his nerves a bit.

John had been to a gay bar before, but that had been more of a joke; a dare from his drunken buddies. It had been pretty much a normal bar, just with a significantly larger proportion of men being served than in other bars. But this here, Deep Purple, was on another level. It was clearly more of a nightclub than a bar, with people coming with the obvious intention to pull. There was unrepentant snogging and groping going on wherever he looked.

Overwhelmed by all of the goings-on, John pressed his lips together into a thin line and gripped his beer bottle, getting his hands wet from the condensation. The thought of Sherlock having frequented this place was so absurd that John could only shake his head incredulously.

A man pushed his way up to the bar next to John, his order swallowed up by the deafening music. He turned toward John and gave him a once-over, grinning from ear to ear. He towered over John with his lanky figure. His white mesh top didn't do a thing to conceal his slender chest.

"Hi!"

John glanced up, flashed a forced smile in return, and looked away again. He drank a sip of his beer and tried to find an unobtrusive point in the room to fix his eyes on. The last thing he wanted to do was to give this bloke (or anyone else) any false hopes.

"You're cute!" The man had leaned over to John and spoken the words right in his ear; even so, they were barely audible. John understood, however. He looked doubtfully into the other man's face, trying to figure out what he wanted after dropping that line. 'Cute' really wasn't an adjective that John wanted to be describe with.

He rolled his eyes in annoyance and turned to face Victor, who was leaning back with his elbows on the bar, watching the scene unfold with a broad grin. When their eyes met, he burst out laughing, but eventually had mercy and slung an arm around John's shoulders.

"Sorry, this one's taken," he said and pulled John away with him, ignoring the other man's look of dismay.

As soon as they were a short distance away from the bar, John pushed Victor's arm off his shoulder and chuckled wearily. He followed Victor to the wall behind the dance floor, where there were several booths in a row. Each one boasted a corner bench and a table. They were lucky: a couple was just leaving, so they slipped inside and sat down.

There were several empty bottles and glasses on the table, but at least the music wasn't quite as loud, so that it was possible to talk. John sat down, wiped his hands off on his trousers, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Bloody hell, where have I ended up?" he muttered, not really expecting an answer.

Victor laughed softly beside him and shrugged. "Well, this is Deep Purple, a rainbow playground in the middle of Soho. Where did you expect me to bring you?"

John raised his hands and shook his head helplessly. "Not here? I mean, after everything that's..." He cut himself off when a young man came by their table and cleared everything away, his hips bouncing in time with the music. He winked at John and Victor before moving away in the direction of the bar.

"Like I said earlier... I don't want to have my freedom restricted because of that whole mess with that madman. I like being here, I know a lot of people, and..." Victor drained his bottle with a reflective air. "It's hard enough to learn to trust again."

"Got it."

"I know you do," Victor said with a sidelong smile at John. They fell into a companionable silence, watching the dancing crowd from their vantage point while John drank the rest of his beer.

"So..." John ventured, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth as he cast about for the right words. "Does that mean... erm... it's none of my business, of course... but... have you had... you know, since..."

"What? Affairs? Sex?" Victor supplied, unable to withhold a laugh at John's embarrassment.

John nodded once in agreement and picked at the label on his bottle.

"No more than you have."

John let out a frustrated huff. He wasn't sure whether Victor meant that the last time he'd had sex was with Sherlock, or just in general that he hadn't been with anyone since Sherlock's death. After he and John had got together, Sherlock had spoken of his erstwhile feelings for Victor, but no more intimate details had emerged.

"The last time was here," Victor added after a moment of silence.

"Ah..." John said simply and nipped at his beer, only to find the bottle was empty.

"I'll get us another," Victor said and got up. His hurried departure looked a little bit like running away. John folded his arms and watched as Victor went to the bar and placed his order. While he was waiting, a man approached him and said something, smiling, then gave him a quick hug; apparently an old acquaintance. They exchanged a few words before Victor was handed two bottles, which he brought back with him.

"I'm going to dance. Are you coming?"

John shrugged and scooted off the bench. "Okay, if you want, but don't expect any brilliant performances from me. I don't think I can even remember the last time I danced!" He took one of the bottles and drained half of it, pushed aside his nagging doubts, and followed Victor onto the dance floor. _What the hell_ , John said to himself. After all, he was here to cheer up a friend. It hardly mattered if he made a fool of himself or not. Anyway, he highly doubted he would ever become a regular here...

John found it difficult to let the rhythm of the music take hold of him. He and Victor didn't exactly dance together, although they stayed close to each other. Each one moved on his own to the alluring sounds which soon took control. John watched in fascination how naturally Victor seemed to lose himself in the music, as if he'd never done anything other than dance. John tried to copy his movements a little, but realised fairly quickly that he wasn't anywhere close to being as in tune with the music as Victor was.

That's why John wasn't surprised when someone cut in on him a moment later. Victor was apparently more than willing to accept the offer, immediately pulling the other man closer and rocking to the music with him, only to push him away a few seconds later with an impish grin playing on his lips. The other man didn't seem to be put off at all, moving in on Victor again and trying to press up against him.

John raised one eyebrow sceptically when he caught Victor's eye, but Victor's only reaction was a brief twitch of the corner of his mouth. Apparently everything was fine. And anyway, Victor was more than capable of taking care of himself, John thought to himself, and reached out one hand toward his friend to take his beer. Victor understood after a moment's pause and handed the bottle to John before returning his full focus to his dance partner.

John took both bottles to the bar, drained Victor's, and ordered a new one for himself as he continued to observe Victor. It was better this way. He preferred to keep an eye on him from a distance rather than being put on display himself.

The bartender poured another tequila for John, winking as he did. "Vic might be a while..."

John twisted his mouth into a semblance of a smile and accepted the glass with a thank you. The whole atmosphere at the club was fairly overwhelming, and John realised without any real surprise that this milieu wasn't really what he needed on a day-to-day basis.

That old voice was still active in John's head, and at the moment it was of the firm – and somewhat hysterical – conviction that he was definitely not gay. He wasn't precisely bothered by being there, but it was hard for him to accept being viewed as part of this group. Of course he'd loved Sherlock – still loved him, in fact – and the thing with Greg had certainly been based in more than just friendship. But that didn't mean there would never be another woman in his life.

_Even if sex with a man... fuck._

He didn't want to put the thought into words; it was causing a wishful kind of tingling and tension in his groin that he couldn't use at the moment. Instead, images flashed in his mind's eye. Images of skin on skin, of long fingers gliding across his abdomen and hips.

The music in the overcrowded space changed now, slowing down a couple of beats and becoming more insistent. John drank some more, swallowing past the fluttering sensation in his chest.

_John._

A low rumble vibrating across his nerve endings. Hot breath hitting the back of his neck. The weight of another body pressing him into the sheets. Dampness and searing heat. Motionless. Defenceless. Conquered.

"John?"

No. _Fuck._

"Hm?" John looked up into Victor's face and smiled thinly, forcing the inappropriate feelings back into the depths of his memory

"Everything all right?" Concern etched a deep crease between Victor's eyebrows.

"Sure. What could be wrong?" John retorted, lifting the bottle to his mouth. A single drop dribbled out to wet his lips. He frowned, irritated. "Sorry, I think that was your beer. Wait, I'll order you another."

Deep Purple wasn't quite as full now, the dance floor easier to see. Victor leaned against the bar next to John, his foot bouncing in time with the music. John realised that more people were vanishing behind the bar than before. Bemused, he watched two men meander toward the dark corridor, hand in hand.

"Dark room," Victor commented, correctly interpreting John's look. "And a couple of private rooms. That's why the coat room's down here. Lots of people deposit everything there so they can move freely in the back."

"Oh," John managed, cursing the heat that shot into his face. _Damn it, I'm not a teenager any more..._ And anyway, dark rooms really weren't just a thing in gay clubs. The thought of going into one of those almost pitch-black rooms to see what would happen... John cleared his throat discreetly. _Not even in your dreams_ , he reproached himself and drank some more of his beer.

When he heard Victor chuckling softly, he turned to him. "What?"

"Your face. Precious! You're not particularly good at hiding what you're thinking, John," Victor said, leaning into John a little so that he was the only one who could hear his next comment: "Do you want to take a peek?"

"No," John replied promptly, clenching his jaw so hard that it hurt. He focused on a spot in the distance in order to keep his face as motionless as possible. He didn't want Victor to get any ideas and interpret his defensiveness as something that wasn't there. That would never be there. Of course not.

But maybe... "Do _you_?" John asked suddenly, panic rising in his voice. And if he did, would Victor seriously expect John to go with him?!

"Not necessarily, no. But... it happened back there. That's where I met that Tiger person. In one of the private rooms. I'd really like to make sure he's not there, somehow. Yes, I know it's stupid..."

"Where's the loo?" John asked, vaguely hoping to that would suffice to ward off Victor's subliminal request. Coming here at all had been a huge hurdle already. Venturing further into the depths of this unpredictable place would probably be too much for a single evening. Fortunately, Victor seemed to take the hint.

"Down there," he said, indicating a hallway next to the private rooms.

"Can I go in there without running the risk of someone pouncing on me?" John asked, struggling with the troubled smile that fought its way onto his lips.

"You can't be sure of that anywhere in here!" Victor replied with a laugh. "I'm sure you can defend yourself well enough, but I can go with you and make sure no one comes too close."

"Don't be silly..." John said, wrinkling his brow, but Victor wouldn't be put off. He probably had to go himself, and John could hardly blame him.

They walked to the toilets together. John muttered something along the lines of "I can't if you're watching," deciding to urinate in one of the stalls for that reason while Victor headed for the pissoirs. John had barely closed the door behind himself, however, before he let out a frustrated sound: the tiles and floor were clearly stained with traces of dried semen. Not one, not two, but three condoms lay around or floated in the porcelain bowl.

"Are you going to survive?" he heard Victor ask with a laugh while he relieved himself. John just made a despairing yet affirmative sound. He heard the door to the bathroom open, then footsteps from another person, although they didn't go far. Then Victor's zip, a flush, hands being washed. The silence that ensued crept icily up the back of John's neck. An ominous feeling spread in his gut.

As soon as he left the stall, he saw a slim figure with short black hair and thin eyebrows over dark eyes, and stopped in his tracks. Something uncertain passed across the young man's pale face for a fraction of a second. He was wearing a loose, sleeveless black tricot shirt that allowed a good view of the many tattoos decorating his arms. His legs were encased in tight skinny jeans with holes over both knees.

John's eyes snapped tensely to Victor, who was leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, glaring silently at the intruder.

"You, here," the young man declared, licking the piercing in his bottom lip. "That's a nice coincidence; I'm.."

John shook off his initial surprise and strode decisively toward the other two men, took a demonstrative position at the sink between the two of them, and washed his hands. He watched them in the mirror with a critical gaze.

"Ah, out with your bodyguard again, I see..."

"He's not my bodyguard."

"Lover?" Nozzer asked sweetly and smiled. Then he turned to John and extended his hand as if in challenge. "Hi, the name's Nick."

John looked back and forth between the young man and the proffered hand, frowned, and sighed. "Let's go," John muttered in Victor's direction once he'd dried his hands. He took the lead and went to the door, opened it, and waited until Victor followed him.

By the time they got to the bar, Nick had caught up and put himself in Victor's path.

"We need to talk. Now."

Victor stared at the young man without batting an eye. John was still deeply irritated that this Nick fellow looked so bafflingly similar to James Moriarty. He would have liked nothing better than to grab Victor by the collar and ask him if he didn't see it. But what would be the point? Victor had probably never met Moriarty and would hardly understand the awful feeling that the sight of him triggered in John.

The worst part was that John felt guilty at the same time, since he was responsible for the death of Moran, the man Nick had had an affair with. And John could sympathise all too well with that loss.

"You don't have to do this," John said to Victor in a low voice.

Victor nodded to indicate that he was aware of that. He placed one hand on John's shoulder and gave him a piercing look. "Can you wait here? I'll just have a quick word with him, and then... we can leave."

John bit the inside of his cheek. Disquietude burbled in his gut; he didn't want to let the two of them go any further away than arm's reach. He felt the risk was too great that Nick would find out about the shots that were fired, and that he or Victor would get in even more trouble as a result.

_Victor's not stupid... After everything that's happened, he'll take care not to say the wrong thing..._

John nodded but couldn't quite manage to keep his disapproval off his face entirely. He sat down at the bar and watched closely as Victor and Nick went toward the private rooms to talk.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Musical accompaniment for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxbZQS2FQSo)


	13. Sunday, 18.11.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

Five minutes became ten. Ten became half an hour. And two bottles of beer became three, with an equal number of tequilas. John lost track. He couldn't manage to keep his eyes focused on Victor and Nick anymore where they sat huddled together deep in conversation in a private booth in Deep Purple.

John could only guess what the two of them had to discuss for so long. It didn't look like they were arguing, even though Nick gestured frantically now and then; Victor, on the other hand, remained quite calm the entire time. He didn't even glance once at John to make sure he was still there.

 _Great_ , John thought crossly, _I guess that means I'm officially no longer needed_. He decided to get up and leave, but as soon as he slid off the barstool, a feeling of vertigo overcame him. He leaned heavily on the bar and pinched the bridge of his nose to bring his focus down to a single point and regain his balance. He'd definitely had too much to drink.

"Leaving already?" a deep voice asked from behind him. "And here I've just found you."

 _Not again_ , John thought and whipped around to deliver a rejection to the umpteenth man that night. Neither his head nor his knees were particularly pleased with the action, however, and promptly refused to function. Before John could fall to the floor between the barstools, the stranger reached for him and held him up.

"Wow, didn't think I'd have an effect like that on you."

John stared. He knew it was impolite, but he couldn't help it. He could virtually feel the blood draining out of his face and his heart skipping a beat.

"Sh..." John didn't get any further. As if of its own accord, his body catapulted itself into the other man's arms, grasping his neck with an iron grip and pulling him close. "Oh, God..."

"Wow, hey... everything all right? You've had a bit too much to drink, haven't you?" The deep voice sent goose pimples down John's back, setting off a downright seismic shudder that ran through his entire body. John had to muster all of his strength to separate himself from the crook of the other man's neck and create enough space between them to look at him.

John blurrily took in the dark hair, the fair skin, and the pale eyes that stood in contrast to it. He blinked angrily and wiped his face, trying to focus.

"It almost seems as if you've been waiting for me all evening." A flash of a smile.

 _All evening... all evening?! It's been months, you idiot._ John laughed in a deranged way, scrabbling his fingers over the man's white shirt. Feeling the heartbeat under his knuckles. Fingers resting on his cheek, caressing it gently. Air streamed shakily out of John's lungs. Then he stretched up onto his tiptoes and kissed him. Finally. Finally.

_Oh, God. No._

It was wrong. Right... and yet so wrong. His heart squeezed and clenched, making him almost suffocate from the kisses that were being enthusiastically returned. Soft and warm and moist. Arms around necks and waists, hands on napes and smalls of backs. Close.

No. It wasn't right.

_It is what it is, what it is, what it is. What is it?!_

John gasped when he bumped hard into a wall and the last of the air was knocked out of his lungs. He greedily sucked in the other man's breath, bit down hard on his lips, dug into his shoulders and dark curls.

_Fuck!_

"Fuck, you're so hot." The words huffed out against his neck. Sweet pain where blood vessels burst beneath tender skin. Large, warm hands under the borrowed black shirt, on his bare stomach, in the sweat-damp groove of his backbone. A hand stumbling over the heavy-duty material of his jeans and grabbing his arse, eagerly drawing him closer to the other body.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

In his head there was a droning, throbbing, pounding. The sound reminded him of Harry when she was small, banging loudly on his door demanding revenge for a broken toy. As if it were a matter of life and death. What a strange thought.

_No. Yes. Oh, God..._

"Hey! Get your filthy hands ..."

 

******

 

Purple.

Shapes peeled away from the shadows, faintly illuminated by violet light. Barely enough to make out an entire person. A mosaic of curves and angles. Jaw, collarbone, bicep. Bare skin.

Slowly and methodically, he set one foot in front of the other, kept bumping into foreign objects. Curious looks, bold fingers stroking him like tongues of fire; titillating; thirsty.

The pulse in his throat beat in time with the music. Heat at his back. Hands on his waist.

"There you are." Lips on his earlobe. The tip of a tongue teasingly flicking across it, scattering goose pimples in its wake. "I've been waiting for you all evening."

An arm reached around him, pushing his head to one side so that the man behind him could press his lips onto John's. Flames licking across his nerve endings. He was vaguely aware of other shapes around him, undulating against each other in the three-quarter darkness, seeking, sighing, rocking as they made love.

He surged back against the other man, unabashed, making his intentions clear. He let out a satisfied sound when industrious hands forced their way in between skin and trousers, pushing the fabric down his hips. The other man leaned into him, hard and hot, wrapped around him, pushed relentlessly into him.

He jolted as if electrified, flung his mouth open in a soundless scream and writhed with lust between the wall and the arms that held him in place. Moans from strangers' mouths on the right and left, unambiguous sounds of skin slapping against skin. Mass delirium. Pulses in harmony.

The storm inside him reached its zenith, making him shake and tremble. He dug into the other man's arms, giving himself over to the rush. Breathless. Out of sync.

Teeth sank into the back of his neck, fanning the flames of the desperate sounds fighting their way out of his throat as he came.

 

******

 

John jerked awake. He instinctively reached for the back of his neck, still feeling the echo of the bite beneath the surface of the slowly dissolving dream. All he found were tense muscles beneath his fingers. It took him a while to sort out the various signals his body was sending.

His head hurt like hell. A dull throbbing occupied every space, thrumming against his skull as if the swollen mass of his brain wanted to break out of its too-small casing.

What was more irritating, however, was the erection that was barely restrained by the material of his underpants. His heart sent waves of arousal into his groin in time with his heartbeat and the drumming pulse in his head.

He lay on his side, his legs drawn up and his arms wrapped loosely around himself. A blanket lay over him. It smelt unpleasantly of cigarette smoke. Even worse was the stale taste in his mouth.

John's eyes smarted underneath his closed lids, felt sore and overstrained. He reluctantly opened them a crack, which only intensified the burning sensation. Sighing, he rubbed the sleep out of the corners and pinched the bridge of his nose.

After blinking a few times, he was able to take in his surroundings. He was in Victor's living room. The beer bottle with the dregs of liquid left in it was still standing on the table, beside it the full ashtray and his phone. His jeans were draped over the back of the couch, his black shirt lying on top. John could not for the life of him remember having undressed, much less coming here.

He turned onto his back, stretching his legs out to their full length with the same motion, and running his hand over his crotch in passing. Sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, he tried to recall the images from the dream which had had such a beguiling effect on him. The memory of the darkroom sent heat shooting into his face. He groaned in embarrassment and covered his face with his arms, hiding in the shadow he created.

When the door to Victor's adjacent bedroom opened, he turned onto his side again to hide the bump in the blanket.

"Good morning," a cheerful voice trilled.

John's breath caught. He sat up faster than was good for him and pulled the blanket around his shoulders protectively. He stared at the young man, speechless.

"You've obviously survived the night. How... nice." Nick's voice dripped with scorn. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of skin-tight black briefs. All of the many drawings were visible which decorated his chest, arms, and back like a canvas. However, they couldn't conceal the bluish-red oval on the right side of his ribs and stomach, where an overzealous mouth had left its mark.

John watched Nick disappear into the bathroom before his gaze fell once more on the bedroom door. He listened with baited breath to hear anything from the inside of the room, but the sound of the shower drowned out any other noises there might have been.

A combination of concern and aversion made his throat tighten and close up. So Victor had brought Nick home with him. Nick, who had been connected to Moran. Nick, who looked like the spitting image of Moriarty. The thought that he might have done something to Victor; that the latter was possibly lying dead in his bed... ridiculous.

John shook his head and moaned in agony when the pain suddenly pounded even harder against his temples. He concentrated as hard as he could to fix his gaze anxiously on the door. As if he'd heard him, Victor emerged.

His light blond hair was tangled and stood up in every direction. He wore only a pair of black sweatpants. He walked barefoot past the sofa without so much as glancing in John's direction. John watched his friend go, pressing his lips together when he noticed the red scratch marks on his back. Three red stripes drawn across Victor's shoulder blade.

 _The period of abstinence seems to be over_ , John thought grimly. He heard Victor moving around in the kitchen, filling the kettle and turning it on. The clatter of silverware, the sound of drawers being opened and closed. The hiss of a bottle of water being opened and the glug-glug of a glass being filled.

Victor returned to the living room a few seconds later and held a big glass of water out to John, along with a blister pack. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea," John croaked, his voice rough with sleep and the past night. "… please." He cleared his throat and squeezed out two of the headache pills into his hand, rinsed them down, and finally emptied the glass the rest of the way.

Victor leaned forward and reached for the blister pack, snatched it neatly away from John, and went back to the kitchen. John swallowed hard. Victor seemed to be angry. He returned a few minutes later with two cups, which he set on the table before going back to the kitchen to retrieve another cup along with the open bottle of water. He sat down next to John on the couch and snorted.

"You really painted the town last night."

John hesitated before nodding. "I hadn't eaten much... then the exercise session..."

"Do you remember how the night ended?" When John shook his head, Victor continued, "Some arsehole must have thought it was pretty funny you couldn't tell up from down anymore and wouldn't stop sticking his tongue down your throat. You would have gone in the back with him if I hadn't stepped in."

John held his breath and stared at the empty glass in his hands. He drew a shaky breath into his lungs and bit the inside of his cheek.

"Nick helped me bring you here."

A feeling of repugnance arose in John. "And to thank him, you … also let him sleep here." He'd wanted to say something else, but the sanitised version would probably save him from Victor punching him in the nose. John would scarcely be able to defend himself in his condition.

Victor's eyes met John's and there was something foreboding in them. "You didn't want to leave. That guy... I don't know if someone put something in one of all those drinks you had or what, but you swore up and down that he was Sherlock."

"Fuck..." John gulped, running his thumb and middle finger across his smarting eyes.

"I intervened before he could drag you into the darkroom."

John tried as hard as he could to stop his hands from shaking. Images flashed in his mind's eye. Images of the darkroom, of different people around him, touching him. Some carefully probing, some aggressively demanding. And then the hands of the man he'd thought was Sherlock.

He knew it had all just been a dream, and yet the transition from reality to that illusion was so fluid that it was hard for him to say where one ended and the other began. Even more alarming was the fact that he could still feel that ugly urge in his head – the desire to leave with that stranger for real. The wish to forget everything else for an indeterminate amount of time.

"That wasn't you, John. You're always so... together and in control otherwise. You want a relationship, not anonymous sex in some club."

"How do you know what I want..." John muttered, drawing the blanket closer around his shoulders and ignoring Victor's searching look.

"That bird at your gym is more along your lines. At least she seemed rather interested in you. I'm sorry I got in the way..."

John's hands clenched into fists around the soft fabric of the blanket. Victor had saved him several times in the past twenty-four hours from unwanted attentions; had demonstrated foresight where John's brain had failed. Wasn't that what friends did? Watch out for each other?

And John? He'd let Victor go off alone with Nick; had been about to leave the club, if he'd been in any condition to do so. He was fairly certain he wouldn't have looked back either, if he had. Instead, Victor had had to take care of him yet again by making sure John had a safe place to sleep off his binge.

_I'm honestly completely useless..._

"How did the … talk with Noz— with Nick go?

Victor exhaled the air from his lungs as if he needed to gain time in order to find the right words. After he'd drunk some tea and set the cup down again, he turned to face John. An insincere smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"He admitted that Tiger had told him to serve as bait to catch me."

John's blood froze upon hearing those words. "How – in the world – can you still let that man into your flat, much less into your bloody bed?!"

Just then, Nick came out of the bathroom, a towel tied around his hips, and strolled into the living room. When he saw how upset John was, he stopped in his tracks. Within a couple of blinks of an eye, however, John was standing in front of Nick and grabbed him by the neck to push him up against the nearest wall.

"You filthy bastard! You're in this with Moriarty after all!"

Fear flared up in the young man's wide-open eyes, only to fade a moment later into such perfect disinterest that John's breath caught.

"John! Let him go!" Victor cried and put both of his hands on John's shoulders, although he didn't pull him away. "It wasn't his fault. Not really..."

"But..."

"Let me explain..." Victor said and released him.

John waited until Nick had walked around him, then reluctantly followed the two of them back to the couch without taking his eyes off Nick. It wasn't until he'd sat down that he felt his racing heart and the pounding in his head, which had been overridden by the burst of adrenaline before.

It took the length of a cigarette and the rest of his tea before Victor began speaking again. Nick, who had taken the armchair cattycorner to the couch, seemed to have turned to stone. His hands on his bare knees and his empty gaze made it almost appear as if he'd withdrawn into his own mental space. Upon closer inspection, however, it was possible to make out his frantic heartbeat in the vibrations of his thin chest.

"Nick worked for Tiger. Client acquisition. He chatted people up and made sure they bought their stuff from Tiger rather than some other dealer. There was something private going on between them too, as you already know. That... is a little more complicated..." Victor said and gave Nick a questioning look, but the latter continued to remain impassive. Victor took that as a signal not to dig into the topic any deeper.

"At any rate, Nick had nothing to do with anything else involving the business. He was just the intermediary between the customers and Tiger. Until the day Tiger told him to reel in a certain customer and bring him to him. Me. No one told him why, and..." Victor clicked his tongue scornfully. "… and based on the personal situation the two of them were involved in, he assumed I was intended to play a part in one of their... _games_."

"Game— oh." John kicked himself for his overactive mouth. The realisation that Nick must have been involved in a... well... _open_ relationship with Moran had come to him a moment too late. And Victor had apparently not wanted to miss the chance to participate. John pressed his lips together and looked over at Victor, studying his profile thoughtfully.

_He really doesn't seem to have much self-restraint._

"He found out about Tiger's death two days later in the papers..." Victor met John's eyes and gave him a piercing look, as if to assure him once more that he hadn't betrayed John's confidence, nor would he do so in future.

"I see..." Turning to Nick, he added, "I'm... sorry. For everything. I... guess I overreacted," John said softly.

"Thanks," Nick muttered simply. He got up and went into Victor's bedroom to get dressed.

A short while later, John watched with mixed feelings as Victor and Nick whispered their good-byes to each other. Victor pressed a kiss to the corner of Nick's mouth and ran his hand tenderly through his short black hair. Nick bade John farewell with a short nod of his head before finally leaving the flat.

Victor dropped back down onto the sofa with a tired sigh and clasped his hands behind his head, stretched his legs out, and crossed them at the ankles.

John peered pensively into his cup, where tea stains had settled on the inside, and drained the last few drops. He felt more than saw Victor turn to look at him. He set the cup back down on the table and sighed in resignation.

"So, Nick," John said without any further explanation.

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not in a relationship with him," Victor clarified. "We're friends. Or at least something like it."

"Friendship and love are very close..." John whispered, lost in thought, his gaze fixed somewhere between his hands and the table, lost in empty space.

 

+++

tbc


	14. Saturday, 15.12.2012 (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

The doorbell to 221B rang as soon as John stepped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. It was exactly a quarter past nine in the morning. He listened with one ear as Mrs Hudson came out of her flat and opened the outer door, exchanged a few words with someone, and laughed lightly. Probably the postman, John thought, and poured boiling water into the teapot. He went to the refrigerator, which was clean and well-stocked – a state that John still hadn't got used to – and took out the milk. When he heard the knock on the door, he whirled around.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Greg said, quirking his lips into an apologetic smile.

John sighed silently to himself. Four months had passed since they'd last seen each other. John had kept his promise and sent Greg a message to make it clear that he wasn't angry any more, but they'd never got as far as a meeting. John tended to reply to Greg's texts in monosyllables as often as possible, so as not to give him any false hopes.

The affair between them was over. As to whether their friendship would ever recover, John couldn't say. Maybe given enough time... it was said that time healed all wounds. But as long as they never saw each other, there probably wasn't much hope.

"Morning. Tea?" John asked automatically, already preparing to pour some of the brew into two cups.

Greg's smile gained some confidence. He nodded once and came into the kitchen, accepting the cup with a thanks.

"What brings you down here?" John tried to pose the question as neutrally as possible, to keep his curiosity and discomfiture in balance. A high-wire act. When had it become so difficult to chat with old friends? Would that ever change? Or would John be left with no choice than to seek out new friends, to round up new acquaintances in order not to skid off into the life of a hermit?

_I can talk to Victor... most of the time_. Victor seemed to be an exception. A person who had known John-and-Sherlock, and who now knew John-without-Sherlock. No, that wasn't right. Most of the people who John counted amongst his friends and acquaintances had known both versions, but Victor was the only one who had known Sherlock the way John had. That was one commonality John didn't share with anyone else.

"I wanted to see how you were doing. Face to face. Text messages are so... impersonal. Hard to judge. And maybe I also had a small amount of hope that we... I mean, now that we've... now that the limits are clear, I thought maybe we could try to build up a friendship again. It would be nice if we could have a drink sometime, have a chat. Just as friends, of course."

"Hm..." John grunted and watched the particles of dust dancing in the light that fell through the kitchen window. Apparently you could never get rid of them entirely. "Sure... sometime." Silence fell for several seconds before John spoke again. "How's work going at the Yard?"

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling noisily as if that weren't exactly his favourite topic. John could tell that the tension in the Detective Inspector's shoulders wasn't solely due to their encounter; it was also from work. It must be much more difficult for Greg since Sherlock wasn't there anymore.

"Slow," Greg said, confirming John's assumption. "The files are stacking up on my desk and the solve rate on cases has fallen sharply. I think I learned a lot from Sherlock over the years, but... to be able to think like him..." Greg shrugged helplessly, crossed his arms and shook his head without finishing his sentence.

"I miss it too... working with everyone," John admitted and drank some of his tea before he blurted out any more sentimental nonsense.

"Do you have any idea when you're going to go back to work full-time?"

"My therapist says I'm making good progress. If all goes well, I'll be able to resume my old position at the start of the year. I'm still supposed to attend therapy for a while yet though," John explained, curling his lips tetchily.

Just as Greg was about to respond, they heard Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs, talking to someone.

"… and now the two of them seem to have made up. Mrs Turner's beside herself with joy. Hoo-hoo!" the elderly woman trilled, lifting her wrinkled hand in greeting.

Victor stood on the landing beside her, holding a paper bag from a sandwich shop in the air. "Morning," he said and grinned when he saw Greg's perplexed look. "Hungry?"

"Hi, you're early," John said and got up to fetch another cup from the cupboard. "Would you also like a cuppa, Mrs Hudson?"

Her appearance in the flat indicated that she hadn't wanted to miss the meeting between Victor and Greg. John considered with a smirk what a mixed-up image she must have of him. Although she'd never asked what John's relationship was to Victor, who kept popping up at Baker Street. It was hard to say how much she knew about his relationship with Greg, but John suspected that over time, she'd cobbled together something that was worthy of sharing with her neighbour Mrs Turner.

"Oh, that would be lovely, dear, but I've so much to do... I've got a tray of biscuits in the oven, I'll just bring you boys a few." Perhaps she suspected that her presence would get in the way of an open conversation amongst the three men. But no one would hold it against her if she intended to play hostess after a short while. A strategic plan. John nodded to her in acknowledgement.

He set the teacup down on the table in front of Victor, who had sat down across from Greg, and leaned back against the counter. Greg's bewilderment at this meeting was written all over his face, but as was to be expected, Victor didn't let himself be bothered by it. He serenely stirred milk and sugar into his tea, reached for the paper bag, and handed it to John.

"The sandwich is for you, the croissant's mine. You know I prefer a sweet breakfast," Victor said with a conspiratorial wink before turning to Greg. "Sorry buddy, I didn't know anyone else was expected for breakfast, otherwise I would have brought more."

John pressed his lips firmly together in order not to burst out laughing. Greg's spaced-out expression was simply too delicious. He was about to give Victor a fond pat on the shoulder or brush a wisp of hair out of his face, just to see Greg's reaction, but decided against it.

"No... I mean, I— I dropped in on the spur of the moment. Just wanted to check on John, and..." Greg babbled, then reached for his teacup and took a hasty sip.

Victor bit into his croissant and chewed leisurely, the impish grin still on his lips.

"I didn't think that... after everything... erm..." Greg muttered.

"We get together once in a while," John finally explained, "chat about Sherlock and everything that's happened. We're friends, that's all." He shrugged.

"Do you mean to tell me you don't love me? I expected more from you, doc!" Victor sighed in a theatrical manner, sending John an accusing look.

"I could say much worse to you, you git!" John countered, giving Victor a shove in the shoulder.

Greg grinned quietly to himself as he watched the verbal exchange between the two men. It was good to see John laughing again after such a long time.

No sooner had Victor gulped down the last bite of his breakfast than he checked the time on his phone and leapt to his feet. "We should be making a move," he said and went to the sink to put his cup in it.

John nodded his agreement and cleared the table. "We're on our way to Sussex," John explained to Greg. "We wanted to check out the area where Sherlock grew up. It was my therapist's idea. Instead of blocking things out, you're supposed to consciously seek out places that have to do with the person you've lost and say good-bye. We're starting in Sussex, then going to the university where Sherlock studied, and then we're going to check out a few places around London. Or something..."

"I see," Greg said and stood as well. He gestured for John to follow him into the living room. He stopped close to the window, where Victor couldn't hear them, crossed his arms, and drew his eyebrows together in concern.

"John... be careful, all right? Trevor got Sherlock into big trouble more than once. He apparently had a big influence on Sherlock's past drug use and who knows what all else. He..."

"Greg," John interrupted him, "thanks, but... it's okay. I can take care of myself, and I don't think he's going to try to push any drugs on me. As far as I know, he hasn't taken anything since the whole thing at the theatre. Anyway... he gets me – better than anyone else at the moment. He's doing just as poorly as I am, and it feels good to be able to talk about it to each other."

Greg didn't need to know all of the details of the past week: Nick, all the alcohol, the visit to Deep Purple. He would just feel that his concern was justified rather than seeing that Victor had stopped John from doing anything even more stupid. Victor was good for him. It was already hard enough for John to admit that to himself. He nodded to Greg with an encouraging smile to underscore what he'd said, then turned away and returned to the kitchen to tidy up.

 

******

 

After Greg had said good-bye, John and Victor left the flat as well. They took the bus to Victoria station, where they would take the Southern Railway to Sussex. They didn't have any luggage, as they planned to return to London that same evening. With twenty minutes left before departure, they decided to go have a coffee.

"Have you decided yet?" Victor asked, scratching at the plastic lid of his coffee.

"Hm?"

"Whether you want to see them."

"Oh, right..." When John had told him several days ago about his therapy session and Ella's idea, Victor had wanted to know whether a visit to Mr and Mrs Holmes was part of the plan. John still wasn't sure if he wanted to see Sherlock's parents. It was beyond his comprehension that they hadn't come to the funeral. It was true that Victor had also wanted to avoid the media circus, but John thought it was different for his parents. Wasn't it?

Sherlock had never said much about his parents. John had had to form his own picture of them based on the scanty information he'd pieced together from other conversations. Two emotionally distant, vulture-like figures ensconced in unduly expensive fabrics, looking down their noses at anyone who crossed their path. If Sherlock and Mycroft already gave people the feeling of being picked apart, how much worse must it feel to be examined by people like their parents? In John's estimation, he probably wouldn't last five minutes in a room with the two of them before his instinct to flee kicked in.

On the other hand, they were Sherlock's parents. The two people who had created him, who were responsible for his existence.

"You've never met them, have you?" Victor asked with a mischievous grin. "Believe me, it'll be worth it."

John frowned sceptically and drank some of his coffee. "We should have at least let them know we're coming, shouldn't we? I mean, maybe they're not even home. I imagine they're both very busy people and wouldn't be particularly enthused about two friends of their dead son suddenly popping up on their doorstep... especially after all the fuss that was made about his de— about everything."

Victor simply shrugged. "I haven't got their number, so I can't exactly ring them up. However, I do know where they live – we should at least give it a go. If they aren't home or don't want to see us, we'll just leave. There's enough to see in Brighton anyway."

"Somehow I can't quite picture Sherlock having grown up at the seaside. It seems completely unreal. When you consider how much he loved the big city in London, he must have hated life in rural Sussex," John said once they'd boarded the train and found their seats.

"Not necessarily. I mean, of course he preferred London over anything else, but he was only in Sussex over the holidays anyway. His parents lived and worked in London themselves as far as I know, before they retired to Sussex. The children were shipped off to boarding school and only spent holidays with their parents. I never saw the London house, but I've been to Sussex once or twice."

John grunted his understanding and gazed pensively out the window. He wondered what that kind of life must have been like for Sherlock. Being constantly separated from his family as a child, not having anyplace to really call home or anyone to orient himself by, no real connection; that all must have left an indelible mark on him.

Even though it hurt to hear stories like that, at least Victor knew something of Sherlock's past. Maybe it really would be a good idea to see his parents and fill in some of the many holes that Sherlock's life had left in John's head. Although he highly doubted that he'd be able to let go of Sherlock's memory even once his curiosity had been sated.

"All right, fine, let's go see them. I don't want to miss out on the chance they're willing to talk about Sherlock. And either way, it'll be good for you to see those places again that you visited with him," John said after a while, forcing a smile onto his lips, which Victor returned.

_Friends are there for each other. Even if it doesn't help me, I won't be alone with my grief. Victor lost someone who meant a lot to him too, and I should support him,_ John thought to himself and bit the inside of his cheek. It was still hard for him to accept that Victor had been a part of Sherlock's life for so many years, without feeling a sense of regret and jealousy.

"Thanks," Victor said, although he avoided looking directly at John as he spoke.

The trip would take about an hour and a half. John had brought along a paperback to read, but he might as well use the journey to tease a few more titbits of information out of Victor about his and Sherlock's shared past. After all, the entire point of this outing was to come to terms with the past.

John's gaze wandered through the train car. He and Victor sat across from each other: the two seats next to them were empty. John hesitated for a moment before standing up and sitting down next to Victor, who followed the proceedings with bewilderment. John placed his arm on the armrest between their seats and leaned in a little closer to Victor so that it wouldn't be easy to overhear their conversation from the other seats.

"So... last time you told me about your first kiss. That was... Christmas, right? At... Mark's place?"

"Marcus," Victor corrected him, smirking. He was apparently enjoying the fact that John was picking up the story again and wanting to know more.

"Right. You'd broken up with your boyfriend..."

"We weren't together."

John snorted in amusement. He wondered how many times Victor had delivered that line in the history of his relationships. "Okay, fine, you cut things short with that bloke who thought the two of you were a couple – happy?" Victor chuckled softly and bit his bottom lip, although he didn't make a comment. "And then you and Sherlock had your first real kiss. What happened then?"

"John..." Something in Victor's expression shifted. Whereas he'd clearly found it funny before, now he seemed to be debating with himself. "Do you really want to hear this? I mean... what exactly do you want to hear? How we fell in love? The first time we had sex?" His gaze darted back and forth between John's eyes, trying to determine whether John really wanted to know these things, or whether there was another intention behind it all.

"It's not as if I didn't know that all these things happened, Victor. I'm not deceiving myself, if that's what you're worried about. And I'm painfully aware of the fact that none of this is any of my business when you get right down to it, but... if you're willing, I'd still like to hear it. Sherlock can hardly tell me," John answered quietly.

"Where should I start?"

A grateful smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth. "When did you realise that you were in love with him?" he asked, leaning his head against the back of the seat.

"It took a while. I knew I was extremely attracted to him, but in love... I resisted the idea for a long time, since no one could tell me what that even meant. Back then all I knew was that this boy was something special, and that he wasn't going to get rid of me that easily. There... were a lot of things that went wrong back then, but I still wouldn't have missed any of it for the world."

 

+++

tbc


	15. December 1994 (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, what follows are a couple more chapters about Victor and Sherlock's past that will reveal more about their relationship. I know that the progress of the plot – especially the Johnlock part – is pretty slow. That's why I'd just like to take a moment here to express a special thanks to those patient readers who are still leaving kudos and comments and cheering the characters on. We're not too far from "deliverance" at this point.
> 
> But now onward with the story...
> 
> \---
> 
> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

Victor studied the note in his hand and looked up to compare the information on the overhead display with his notes. He tried unsuccessfully to filter out the cacophony of voices, constant announcements from the station personnel, rapid footsteps, and the scraping sounds of the luggage carts. It was pure chaos all around him. Hundreds of tourists and commuters were rushing through London's King's Cross station to get to their destination that Christmas Eve. Which was usually 'home.' Victor sighed.

Just a few minutes ago, he'd said good-bye to Sherlock, who had climbed aboard the train with his hand raised in farewell. He hadn't even turned around again. It was Saturday. They wouldn't see each other until Tuesday or Wednesday. They'd travelled to London together from the university to transfer at King's Cross. Sherlock was going on to Sussex, Victor to Manchester. The family gathering. But Victor's train was delayed. By about an hour, according to the departure board. He stuffed the scrap of paper with the train number and original departure time into his jacket pocket and ran both hands down his face. He was so tired he felt it all the way down to his bones, having barely slept the last couple of nights.

He'd hardly seen Sherlock at all over the past week: Sherlock had spent most of his time in the lab, which was mostly unused so close to Christmas. Victor had met up with him there once and peered over his shoulder to see if he could help Sherlock in any way with his first-semester assignment. But whatever Sherlock had been doing had had nothing to do with the introductory course. The only thing Victor had been able to tell after a cursory glance at the notes that Sherlock had made in his cramped, spidery handwriting was that it had something to do with advanced chemistry.

Victor hadn't inquired any further as to the purpose or reason. He'd been too distracted by the focused look on Sherlock's face, brightly lit by the white lamp of the microscope he was bent over. His eyes darting back and forth, gleaming silver in the illumination, his lovely lips moving as he spoke silently to himself. Victor would have liked nothing more than to go over to Sherlock, pull him close, and repeat their little experiment from the night of the Christmas party. But they hadn't so much as kissed since then.

At this point, Victor was having doubts as to whether that kiss had even happened, or whether his brain had made the whole thing up. At least it was clear that the affair with Tom was over. Abigail had complained to Victor several times that Tom was constantly moping around and snapping at her over everything. She was well versed by now in ignoring her flatmate, there being no other way to get on with him.

In order to make some use of the time until his train left, Victor shouldered his rucksack and wandered through the train station looking for a café. He happened upon a location of a coffee shop chain where the menu board was visible through the front plate glass window. Several tables huddled closely together right behind the window, so that the customers could look out and keep an eye on the station's departure and arrival boards. Victor did a double-take when his attention was caught by a man sitting there who raised his hand in greeting.

Ryan Walters gave him a noncommittal smile.

_Well would you look at that_ , Victor thought to himself and waved back. He went into the coffee shop, ordered a tea at the counter, and went over to the lecturer.

"Merry Christmas," he said, gesturing questioningly at the empty seat next to Walters.

"Thanks, you too. Please, please, have a seat."

Victor stowed his rucksack underneath the table and sat down on the upholstered seat beside the professor. A server brought his tea a few seconds later. He said thank you without taking his eyes off the other man. A strange coincidence that they should run into each other here, of all places.

"Are you on your way to visit your family?" Walters asked. He took a sip of his coffee and licked the milk froth from his lips with a swift flick of his tongue.

"Yes, the annual call of duty. But a little break from studying might be just the thing. What are your plans for the holidays?"

"I'm visiting a couple of friends in Leeds who have been gracious enough to offer me asylum. We know each other from back in college. But apparently all the trains heading north are experiencing delays."

"Looks that way," Victor replied, sipping his tea. He hissed when it burnt his tongue.

Walters chuckled softly. "You Brits and your tea. One would think you'd be used to the heat," he said in a tone of playful admonishment and a glint in his eye that Victor couldn't help but notice.

"Well, what can I say. We like it hot," Victor countered and returned the smile.

They fell silent for a moment, listening to the sounds in the station, the clattering and clinking in the café, the Christmas carols on the radio piping out of the loudspeakers in the ceiling.

"I..." Walters stopped as if he needed to reconsider his words, choose them more deliberately. "I called, but..." he said carefully; uncertain and wary. He was well aware that he was stepping out onto thin ice by taking up with a student. Not because it was officially forbidden, but because they were both men. The attitude at universities was still rather conservative in that regard.

"Hmm..." Victor said slowly. "You've caught me. It wasn't really my number. I wanted to get Sherlock's goat. You know, the freshman auditor sitting in on your class."

"Oh, of course, I see... Yes, I know who you mean. Mr Holmes is extremely intelligent. It's nice that he's interested in topics outside of his major," Walters said, trying not to let his discomfort show over his inaccurate reading of the situation. There was a definite note of disappointment in his voice.

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the lecturer from the side. There was a forced indifference to his manner: apparently he wasn't entirely uninterested – not at all – at least where Victor was concerned. And Sherlock had no idea what a walkover the man would have been if he'd only mustered enough courage at the beginning. But the day was far from over...

"Sherlock finds you quite attractive but doesn't dare approach you. He has no experience and is shy on top of it. I think with a little encouragement..."

"Are you trying to set me up with him? Did he resent your little prank so much that you're trying to make up for your mistake now?" Walters asked, clearly annoyed, as he searched Victor's blue eyes for an answer.

Victor shrugged nonchalantly. "I didn't think you were actually interested in me," Victor replied with a conciliatory smile.

Walters placed his arm on the table beside Victor's so that they touched lightly. He examined their two hands lying side by side, as if comparing them. His fingers twitched slightly as if it were difficult for him to hold them back. Eventually he looked up, glanced over at the departure board, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to take out his wallet. He opened it and withdrew a business card, which he set down next to Victor's hand.

"My train will be here in ten minutes," he said and stood up, slipped into his coat, and straightened his collar. He leaned down to Victor and whispered close to his ear: "Call me when you're back. Maybe we can continue this conversation then. The two of us... or all three. We'll see."

Victor watched as he left the café and walked toward the platforms. Halfway there, Walters turned around and waved good-bye to Victor, leaving the young man with several brand new ideas and options.

 

******

 

Victor felt the more than four-hour train journey all the way down to his bones when he finally arrived at his parents' house and ran the gauntlet of the ritual greetings. As expected, both his mother and father were in high spirits, already slightly tipsy and beaming like characters in a Christmas advertising spot. The rest of the family sat in the living room, including his uncle, aunt, cousin, and grandmother, waiting for dinner to be served.

Despite the fact that Victor was so tired, the others' good mood was infectious, and after drinking a glass of wine and getting some of the holiday meal in his stomach, he couldn't resist the magic any longer, joking and laughing along with them and talking about the university. He even put up with the terrible Christmas carols. Although he still disliked all the fuss, he had to admit he was glad he'd made the long trip.

Once the guests had left, Victor helped tidy up, bringing the plates and silverware into the kitchen and answering all of the questions his parents could think of about their son's life. Most of them concerned what he planned for his studies and the decision as to whether Victor would continue for a Master's after completing the basic courses; and if so, where he would pursue it. For the Trevors, their son's degree was nothing more than a status symbol since Victor would be absorbed into the family business as soon as he was done with university. There was no room for debate as to Victor possibly having other plans for his career.

After most of the mess had been dealt with, Victor retired to his old room. There was hardly anything left of his. Boxes standing in one corner were filled with all of the things he hadn't wanted to take with him to the dorm. He'd taken the posters, pictures, and photographs down from the walls and packed them securely along with most of his books and all the bric-a-brac that tended to accumulate in the course of a lifetime. The bed had been freshly made and towels were laid out for him. It felt more like a messy hotel room than his old home.

Victor turned on the desk lamp and dug around in the boxes a bit until he found his old radio. He plugged it in next to the bed, adjusted the antenna, and tried to find a decent station. Something that wasn't playing Christmas music. Familiar strains filled the room, making it feel a little less barren. After turning out the light, leaving just the moonlight trickling in through the window, Victor lay down on the bed, folded his arms under his head, and closed his eyes, exhausted.

_I wanna know what love is. I want you to show me.*_

He swallowed hard. What was going on? No sooner had the darkness enveloped him than the images came alive which he'd succeeded in burying in a distant corner during the day. Images that had burned themselves into each of his cells; that were doing the strangest things to him. Images that had no right to cause such turmoil inside him.

Quicksilver flowing around black pupils, streaming into each of his pores, making his shiver. Hands reaching for him, holding him steady in a perfect balance between insecurity and desire. Pulling and urging, seeking and demanding. Warm.

And that mouth... A shaky breath struggled to escape Victor's throat. He ran his thumb across his lips again and again in a vain attempt to mimic the feeling of the kiss he'd shared with Sherlock.

_Does he feel the same? No... why should he? It's not me he wants at all._

Victor got up and fetched a pack of cigarettes out of his trousers, lit one, and opened the window. It was bitterly cold outside, but the fresh air did him good and helped counter the heaviness in his head.

There was a treacherous feeling inside him, a feeling that spoke of things Victor hadn't believed he was acquainted with. It gnawed its way through his guts, leaving a bloody battlefield in its wake.

How could that arrogant know-it-all, that catastrophe of a human being, just burst into his life without so much as a by-your-leave and claim a part of him – no, steal it – without having even the faintest idea of the consequences??

_Fuck. This is all a bloody mess._

Victor stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill and flicked the butt away into the front garden. Then he closed the window and took off his trousers and shirt before getting back into bed. Almost two hours passed before he finally managed to fall asleep.

 

******

 

On the afternoon of Boxing Day, a Monday, Victor returned to the campus. His parents had gone with him to the train station and said good-bye there. The next day, they would once again become  profit-oriented entrepreneurs with no other thoughts in their heads than the business. Victor wanted to spare himself having to witness the transformation, since it would only end in an argument.

Victor had made use of the scant few days at his parents' to ponder the latest developments in his life and had come to the conclusion that whatever it was that was derailing him at the moment, it must be a temporary glitch. A little distance was apparently enough to set him in his right mind once more.

In the end, it didn't matter whether he helped Sherlock to pull Ryan or had a little fun with one or the other – or both – of them. It was a way to pass the time... or to satisfy a base instinct. Sex. Or the prospect of it. A game. No rules. Whoever tried to introduce any had already lost. So why drive himself crazy?

Victor spent a couple of days working a temp job in a nightclub. He did that frequently during the semester breaks, helping out when he was needed, even working behind the bar sometimes. It was a good way to distract himself, to clear his mind and flirt with no strings attached. Especially when he took on the role of bartender, where he was constantly surrounded by people who wanted to talk to him, and he was happy to take advantage of the opportunity.

One young man was particularly persistent and kept coming round until Victor let himself be talked into dancing with him during one of his breaks. The man's lips covered his before too long, but... it felt strange. He pushed the man away, shrugged his shoulders, and made a derogatory comment, which earned him a couple of colourful insults. Victor simply ignored the miniature tantrum and took up his position behind the bar again.

He also worked on New Year's Eve, as he didn't feel much like celebrating. He'd barely been able to reach Abigail lately, as she was either spending all of her time with Marcus, or else Victor had the bad luck to get Tom on the phone whenever he rang their flat. Tom didn't bother passing the receiver on, instead hanging up promptly as soon as he heard Victor's voice.

Victor hadn't heard a word from Sherlock either since they'd parted ways at the train station, so he assumed Sherlock was still with his family in Sussex. He shoved the flare of disappointment far away, ignoring it as much as he could.

He was therefore that much more surprised when he saw Abigail enter the club – with Sherlock trailing behind. Someone at the coat check must have told them that Victor was behind the bar that night, because they made a beeline straight for him. Abigail was all smiles when she reached Victor, and flung her arms enthusiastically around his neck.

"It's so good to see you!" she cried, depositing a kiss on Victor's cheek. "I was already afraid that you were doing a pub tour on your own and we'd never find you!"

Victor laughed and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him chummily. Then he glanced over at Sherlock, who was letting his eyes sweep indifferently across the crowd. He'd actually managed to put on a stylish black shirt for once, its sleeves turned up to his elbows. His long legs were encased in dark blue jeans.

"We ran into each other earlier," Abigail explained, gesturing between herself and Sherlock. "And so I asked first thing if he wanted to tag along, and ta-daa—"

"I didn't have anything better on," Sherlock said with a shrug.

Victor couldn't help grinning. All of a sudden, his stomach started tingling and his heartbeat kicked up a notch or two. All of the strange sensations he'd taken such trouble to suppress over the past few days returned to the surface. All at once. As if they'd just been waiting for the right stimulus.

_Damn it all..._

"There's something I really need to tell you afterwards, but let's have a drink first. Make me a sunrise?" Abigail asked Victor.

He nodded and turned to Sherlock. "What do you want?"

Sherlock lifted his shoulders noncommittally. "Surprise me."

Victor winked at him and disappeared behind the bar. After sliding the tequila sunrise across the bar to Abigail, he prepared a clear long drink for Sherlock. Gin and tonic. Simple but classic. He watched the two of them expectantly as they tried their drinks. Abigail smiled broadly and held up one thumb.

"Why do you have to be working _tonight_?" Abigail complained.

"Didn't have anything better on," Victor replied in the same tone of voice as Sherlock earlier, and grinned cheekily when Sherlock gave him a searching look.

Abigail tilted her head to one side and crinkled her lips. She apparently didn't believe a single word he said, but she accepted the answer and started talking about the Christmas festivities at her parents' instead, asking questions about Victor's family and their plans for New Year's. At some point, she leapt to her feet and grabbed Sherlock, who had been sitting quietly next to her the whole time.

"Enough chit-chat. Let's dance! Sorry, Locks, but as it appears Vic's busy, it's your turn tonight!"

_Locks?!_

Victor broke out in peals of laughter. Not because of the new nickname, but because of Sherlock's deer-in-the-headlights expression. He looked at the young woman as if he'd been struck by lightning, apparently completely unable to comprehend her impertinence. Before he'd managed to find the right words to protest, Abigail had manoeuvred him onto the dance floor and started swinging her hips provocatively in order to get Sherlock to dance. Sherlock's eyes darted to Victor for a moment, seeking help, then back to Abigail. He eventually capitulated and began moving in time with the music.

Distracted by all of the orders coming in, Victor kept losing sight of the two of them, but he still had to grin whenever he saw how Abigail never let up with Sherlock, kept pulling him in closer as if she'd reserved his services for the entire night. At some point, however, Sherlock did manage to tear himself away and escape to the loo, muttering an apology. Abigail used the break to go over to Victor at the bar and order another drink.

"He's so cute," she giggled and drank from the glass that Victor slid over to her. "It's no wonder at all that you fancy him."

"Quit your blathering," Victor reprimanded her, taking a sip from the bottle of beer he kept hidden behind the counter.

"Oh, come on, Vic, even a blind man with a cane could see it. I knew you were gone on him the very first time you asked me about him. Maybe you didn't realise it at the time – maybe not even now – but you only have eyes for him," she said and took another sip, grinning. "Or else you've suddenly fallen head over heels for me and that's the reason you keep looking over at us!"

Victor smirked as he cleaned a couple of glasses. There wasn't much to object to in Abigail's remarks. At least, he couldn't deny that he was interested in Sherlock. As to the nature of that interest, and how intense it was... well, he wasn't sure of that himself.

"I want to dance with you, Vic. Can you take a break for a couple of minutes?" Abigail asked, batting her eyes at her friend.

Victor's colleague behind the bar made a prompting motion with his head in the direction of the dance floor, as if to tell him not to pass up the opportunity. Victor thanked him, took one more sip from his bottle, and followed Abigail into the dancing crowd. The club was heaving by now. Somehow they managed to move their arms and legs without colliding with the other guests.

Heat and alcohol, rhythm and a sea of lights. It was a wonderful feeling. Letting go and following the rush of blood. Abigail flung her arms around Victor's neck and drew him close in a clumsy embrace.

"Go on, get your man!" she said right into his ear, giving Victor a gentle nudge to direct his attention to the figure standing on the edge of the dance floor, looking over at them uncertainly. Victor deposited a kiss on Abigail's temple and watched as she looked around for a new dance partner before turning toward Sherlock, extending an arm in his direction, and smiling invitingly. A simple gesture, yet the intention couldn't have been clearer.

Sherlock launched into motion immediately, pushing his way past the dancers and only stopping a couple of centimetres away from Victor, regarding him alertly. A new song started up and a few people cheered in acknowledgment, throwing their arms in the air and hopping eagerly across the dance floor. Victor inserted his hand into the gap between Sherlock's arm and waist, placed it firmly at the small of his back, and drew him closer. A smile flitted across his lips when Sherlock grasped his shoulder, seeking his balance.

The music took the lead, rocking them as one in the midst of all the people. Colourful lights danced on their skin, the bass in their bones. There was a gasp of surprise in Victor's ear when he gripped Sherlock harder in the throes of the dance, pulling him in closer to his own body. Hip to hip, one knee inserted between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock's gaze became unsteady. Shifting restlessly between Victor's eyes and mouth, the curve of the neck of his shirt. Long fingers on the back of Victor's neck, in his hair.

_5..._

Victor leaned his head against Sherlock's, dragging the tip of his nose down Sherlock's cheek. Inhaling the other man's heady scent. His hand on Sherlock's back stroked its way across the smooth fabric, feeling the heat of the body beneath.

_4..._

Lips, light as a feather, caressing Sherlock's jaw, the notch beneath his ear, his neck. Not quite a kiss, more than a casual touch. His free hand seeking a path along Sherlock's hairline, digging into the soft mass of curls, tilting his pliant head to one side.

_3..._

The tip of his tongue gently probing across Sherlock's jugular, over the frantic pulse, absorbing the trace of salt that had materialised there. Triggering goose flesh that spread down Sherlock's neck and back.

_2..._

Their eyes met. And held. Held fast to each other in mutual turmoil as time seemed to move slower and slower. Everything around them becoming background static.

_1..._

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Foreigner - I want to know what love it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raNGeq3_DtM)


	16. January 1995, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

It was Sherlock who initiated the kiss, pressing his lips to Victor's. Soft and warm and demanding.

Adrenaline buzzed in Victor's veins, making him sigh against Sherlock's mouth and return every touch greedily. His arms wrapped around Sherlock's torso as if they had a mind of their own, trying to reduce the distance between them as much as possible.

Celebratory shouts broke out around them. The dance music fell silent, and _Auld Lang Syne_ played in the background, prompting some to sing along or at least to hum. Glasses clinked. The new year had arrived.

Victor and Sherlock broke apart, breathing hard and trying to regain their lost composure.

"Happy new year," Sherlock croaked dazedly, letting his gaze pass over the people standing around them laughing, dancing, and drinking. No one paid them any attention.

"Victor! Haul your arse over here, we need help!" one of the remaining bartenders cried, busily filling glasses with champagne. The visitors fell upon the free alcohol like vultures in celebration of the new year.

"Let's get out of here," Victor said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist to pull him along, summarily declaring his working day over.

They went to the coat check and got their jackets.

"Where do you want to go?" Sherlock asked.

"Just away from here. If I stay, I won't be able to get away before sunrise. So... wherever..."

"My car's parked in the back..." Sherlock said.

They'd certainly arrive _wherever_ faster if they drove. A mischievous smirk played at the corners of Victor's lips upon hearing the words. He reached once more for Sherlock's wrist and pulled him out the door with him. As soon as they got outside, they turned down a narrow side lane that led to the central court. A shortcut so that they didn't need to walk around the entire building.

Sherlock's white Ford Cortina stood out back along with one other car. Victor had told Abigail about this secret parking spot once, since the street in front of the club was usually completely full, and the chances of snagging a spot there were virtually nil. Only the club's owner usually parked here. More than three cars wouldn't have had room in the small court anyway. Abigail must have told Sherlock about this place. A heavy iron door that could only be opened from the inside led to the club's storeroom.

Sherlock turned the key to unlock the driver's door and was about to get in when Victor stopped him.

"Wait," he whispered, pushing Sherlock up against the side of the car and kissing him again. He surged in close to Sherlock's body, slid his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, and licked its counterpart possessively.

A palpable shiver ran through Sherlock. Fingers dug into Victor's thin black pullover, uncertain whether they sought an anchor point or proximity.

Victor pulled away from Sherlock, smiling cryptically. "Hold on," he growled, reaching into the car to open the back door and get onto the back seat. He patted the spot next to him invitingly. "Come on, come here..."

Sherlock slid in on Victor's left and pulled the door shut behind him. It was cold in the car. It had snowed for the first time this winter on the last day of 1994. Although all that remained were a couple of little piles of snow in corners here and there, the temperatures at this time of night lay just below freezing.

With a single fluid motion, Victor leaned over and kissed Sherlock as if he couldn't bear to have any distance between their lips. His hand caressed Sherlock's cheek, stroking his cold skin, his nape. Sherlock sighed softly as he was pulled deeper into the kiss.

"You like this," Victor said between two kisses, not sure whether he was actually speaking to Sherlock or to himself. Sherlock held himself up with his right arm on the car seat so as not to lose his balance and fall against Victor. His free hand hovered indecisively in the air as if seeking a place to land.

Victor reached for it and tugged, simultaneously sliding his other arm in between Sherlock's back and the back of the seat, and gave him a gentle push. Sherlock gave into the demand, albeit with some annoyance, and made a surprised noise when Victor grasped the backside of his knee and guided Sherlock's leg over Victor's thigh. Organising Sherlock's arms, legs, and head in the same manner, Sherlock finally ended up sitting on Victor's lap. Just like he had in Marcus's living room at the Christmas party.

Victor scooted back a bit on the seat in order to give Sherlock's lanky form more space, drawing him closer at the same time and seeking out his lips.

"All right?" he asked, his voice gruff. His heart fluttered in his chest, sending waves of heat through his body. Sherlock's uncertain nod amused him. Maybe he was a little overwhelmed by the situation, but the gleam in his eye was more than worth it.

"Kiss me," Victor demanded, then let out a satisfied sigh when Sherlock tilted forward and pressed his lips to Victor's, the tip of his nose cold against Victor's cheek. Sherlock's fingers were frightfully cold as well. Victor felt for them blindly, then pulled them in underneath his leather jacket, right where there was enough heat. Sherlock went along with it all easily enough, but his kisses became sloppier, as if he couldn't focus on all of the input at once that was flooding in.

Victor grinned smugly to himself and kissed Sherlock urgently, demanding his attention. Oh, but it was so easy to discombobulate someone with so little experience. Too many new things to process, too impatient to let things simply take effect. Fireworks kept going off outside, lighting the sky in bright colours, but Sherlock didn't react even once to the loud sounds.

At first Victor's hands slid up and down Sherlock's thighs, which rested on the seat on either side of him. Then they slipped inside Sherlock's jacket, over his hips and waist. One ran up Sherlock's back, the other caressed his bottom. Sherlock's breath caught audibly at the unaccustomed touch, his teeth digging into Victor's lip. But Victor took that as a hint to continue his explorations, making Sherlock's attention flit back and forth as if following a tennis match.

The air in the car continued to get warmer from their heated bodies, and the windows fogged over. Sherlock's fingers weren't cold anymore now, and started wandering themselves, mimicking the motions of the hands on his body. They reverently investigated the structure of the other body, skimming over the soft material of Victor's pullover, feeling their way across his stomach, chest, and shoulders without Sherlock taking his lips away from Victor's for a single second.

It wasn't until Victor broke the kiss that Sherlock looked at him. His gaze was clouded, his pupils blown wide. Victor examined Sherlock's face. He gasped at the sight of the reddened lips, the unfocused eyes; his heart felt as if it had slid straight down into his stomach. A wave of desire washed over him, and he buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, where he greedily inhaled his scent and licked the sensitive skin there. At the same time, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso so hard it was almost painful, pulling him closer and digging his fingers into the layers of clothing.

The sweet, sweet panting sound that escaped Sherlock's throat was music to his ears. It was clearly tinged with arousal. And the rest of Sherlock's body wasn't mincing words over his condition either. Victor could feel Sherlock's erection pushing into his stomach, and was certain that Sherlock could feel Victor's desire as well. The enraptured look, the struggle for control, which was looking more futile with each passing second; all of the unconscious signals Sherlock was sending. Victor noted every detail with astonishment, lapping them up like a drunken man.

He inserted his left hand between their bodies, letting it brush lightly over Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock hissed and flung his eyes open, locking them with Victor's. A wild fire in his dark pupils. Encouraged, Victor increased the pressure from his fingers, insistently rubbing the rough cloth of the jeans as he traced the outline of Sherlock's stiff cock. Sherlock smothered his sigh in another kiss, pressing his forehead against Victor's and panting softly.

The thought that no one had ever touched Sherlock in this way before sent a heady tingling sensation zinging through Victor's body and straight to his cock. He bit down hard on his bottom lip as he tried to tamp down the urge to ravage Sherlock here and now. He scratched his fingernails over the rough fabric, ramping up the intensity of his touch by several factors. Sherlock's eyes fell shut and his brow wrinkled, his mouth dropping open slightly as his breath caught.

"Unbutton your shirt," Victor whispered, his voice dark with lust. Despite the trace of uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes, he did as he was told and started to release the small plastic buttons at his collar. His fingers trembled – and not from the cold, Victor was pleased to note. Once the shirt was open, Victor ran his free hand across the bare skin, caressing a hard nipple with his thumb, then over the angled collarbone and up Sherlock's neck to rub his quivering bottom lip. Sherlock's tongue darted out, moistening Victor's thumb, only to promptly disappear again as if it had done something naughty. The corners of Victor's mouth twitched in amusement.

Victor placed both hands on Sherlock's shoulders, then let them wander down the chest, ribs, and stomach of the hunched-over figure, enjoying the feel of his skin, the intimate contact, before finally hooking them over the waistband of Sherlock's jeans. Sherlock's eyes darted nervously back and forth between Victor's eyes and hands.

"Look at me," Victor commanded, opening one button after another, slowly and carefully, without looking away for so much as a second. "Put your hands on my shoulders."

Sherlock immediately followed the order, happy to give his hands something to do. An electrifying shiver shot through Sherlock when Victor's hand pushed inside his underpants, moving the material aside and freeing his erection. Hot and cold and tingly and everything at once. _Fuck_.

Victor bit his lips at the sight of Sherlock. His eyebrows drawn in close together, his trembling lashes, his panting not so soft anymore as he leaned his forehead against Victor's. His shaky breaths as Victor felt his way across his heated skin, exploring and stroking every square centimetre. Sherlock's breath on Victor's face, hot and quick. His fingers in Victor's long hair, seeking an anchor as Victor increased the motion of his hand, rubbing the head more intently and using his thumb to smear the fluid that dribbled out.

With his free hand, Victor grasped Sherlock by the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a hungry kiss and smothering his soft whimpers. When Sherlock wrapped his arms more firmly around Victor, greedily fondling his tongue, Victor slid his hand inside Sherlock's jacket, under his shirt, and let it wander across his back. He nibbled on Sherlock's lips, plucking at them gently as he changed up his movements on Sherlock's erection. A fresh jolt shook Sherlock when Victor's free hand slipped inside the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, grabbed hold of one arse cheek firmly, and started kneading it lasciviously.

Victor then withdrew his hand, causing a deep breath to escape from Sherlock. Relief? Regret? Victor grabbed him by the back of the neck again to pull him in for a kiss. He interrupted it just a short while later with his fingers, caressing the reddened lips.

"Lick," Victor said, and watched as the tip of Sherlock's tongue probed the tip of his middle finger. As he tentatively obeyed the command and wetted the finger.

Victor's insides clenched with arousal when his finger disappeared between Sherlock's lips up to the second knuckle and he felt the rough texture of his tongue. Victor's pelvis tensed of its own accord, vainly seeking more friction on his own constricted erection. It was incredible! And how much better would it feel to push his cock into that promising mouth?

"There are still so many things I could do to you..." Victor whispered gruffly. He stuck his hand inside the waistband of Sherlock's jeans again, sliding his fingers into the cleft between Sherlock's arse cheeks. He carefully fingered the crinkled skin of Sherlock's hole with damp fingertips, lingering there and tracing lazy circles, titillating the nerve endings. Sherlock gasped softly and, on autopilot, started moving back and forth between the two hands stimulating him, or as much as his position allowed.

"Imagine that's my tongue," Victor breathed out, intensifying the friction on and around Sherlock's glans, which made him whimper softly. "Or here..." This time he increased the pressure from the fingers of his other hand, pressing harder against the ring of muscle without breaching Sherlock's body. Sherlock inhaled sharply, loud enough to hear. Shivering.

"I'd take my time, lick you until you were quivering with arousal. Until you could hardly stand it anymore. Until you asked me to penetrate you. With my tongue, my fingers, my dick... anything... to fuck you."

Sherlock's forehead sank down onto Victor's shoulder. He moaned darkly, digging his fingers into cloth and hair. His body was trembling with tension and arousal, lust chasing constant hot sparks through his veins.

"I'd go slow... dip into you slowly, giving you all my attention... enjoying every centimetre... the shaking of your limbs... your inability to get away from me... your sweet moans and whimpers... I'd take my time, lots of time... as much as I want... keep thrusting into you, over and over... deep and slow, until you fall apart... until you submit to me completely... beg me... _hngh_..." Victor moaned out loud when Sherlock clamped down with his mouth, digging his teeth into Victor's skin.

"More," Sherlock demanded between stopping for air and repeated mini-attacks on Victor's neck.

Victor gasped and arched toward him as much as he could without neglecting the work his hands were doing. His train of thought kept derailing, making him flounder as he tried desperately to scrape together the last of his wits.

"… beg me... to go faster... harder... _hngh_... to finally let you come... but... I'd take my time... keep you hanging until... until you didn't know how to put two words..."

A hefty jolt shot through Sherlock and he tensed up his pelvis and thighs so hard that the back of his neck pushed against the roof of the car. He was barely aware of the moan that broke free from his throat with something close to desperation as he came. No more than he registered the hiss that Victor emitted when Sherlock inadvertently twisted his fingers in Victor's hair. Warm liquid dripped down Victor's hand and who knew where else.

Shallow, frantic breaths burned on Victor's neck when Sherlock collapsed against him a moment later, exhausted. He reached into Sherlock's short hair, turned his head towards him, and held his fingers up in front of Sherlock's bright red face, painted with his orgasm. Sherlock's uncertainty was clear from his expression. Victor brought his hand to his own mouth and licked his thumb and index finger before drawing Sherlock in for another kiss, shoving his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock made a surprised sound but let it happen as he tasted himself.

They eventually broke apart, and Sherlock slid down to sit beside Victor, rubbing his sore neck. Victor looked over at him, out of breath and his heart racing wildly, as he fumbled around with the flies of his trousers. He sighed in relief when his neglected erection was finally freed. Every fibre of his being was on fire with desire, buzzing and begging for deliverance.

He rubbed his stiff cock with hasty motions, caring little for technique or finesse. His unoccupied hand impatiently brushed some bothersome strands of hair off his forehead, then rucked up his pullover a bit to bare his stomach. He positioned his legs awkwardly between the back seat and the front, trying to gain purchase to move his hips in counterpoint to his own hand and get some more friction. He moaned, his head lolling to one side, and caught Sherlock's eye; he was watching Victor, clearly curious.

"Come on, touch me," Victor said between panted breaths. He slowed down the motions of his hand, waiting until Sherlock had placed his fingers around Victor's erection. Then bit down hard on his lips as things now proceeded haltingly, at an excruciatingly slow pace. And yet it felt so good. But the long time during which he'd been focused on Sherlock, when he'd held back and denied himself, had made him impatient.

He put his hand over Sherlock's, forcing an up-and-down motion with a slight twist that quickly brought him to the brink of his self-control. He reached for Sherlock roughly, kissing him and sucking on his lips, then tore himself away again and threw his head back when he climaxed onto his bared stomach.

" _Fuck_ ," he gasped and closed his eyes, trying to regain control of his senses. "That was..." He shook his head weakly, unable to find the appropriate words.

"Yes..." Sherlock agreed, tugging at his clothing in order to get his jeans rebuttoned. He took a tissue out of his pocket and handed it to Victor, who accepted it with a word of thanks, so that he could mop up the worst of the mess. When he'd taken care of that, he took his cigarettes out of his jacket, opened the pack, and took one out. After he'd lit it and taken a deep drag, he passed it over to Sherlock and rolled down the window.

They smoked in silence until Sherlock giggled softly.

"What?" Victor asked, nonplussed.

"I was just thinking what Mycroft would say if he found out what we've been doing in his old car. This is a collector's item," Sherlock said, grinning from ear to ear.

There was silence for a moment, and then they both broke out in peals of laughter.

 

+++

 

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: [Fort Cortina](http://www.uniquecarsandparts.com.au/images/car_info/large/ford_cortina_mk4.jpg)


	17. January 1995, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

The new year was stressful for Victor. The first tests were coming up, so he spent a lot of time at the library and in the labs. He found it incredibly difficult to concentrate on the material due to thoughts of Sherlock constantly circling around in his head. He didn't know whether he should count himself lucky that Sherlock had at least as much to do, or whether he should be disappointed that they saw so little of each other.

On New Year's Day, Abigail had come to Victor's dormitory to continue their conversation from the night before. She'd said that she had something urgent to tell Victor but hadn't got round to it yet.

"Happy New Year, Mr Hard-to-Get!" Abigail said with a smirk. Her eyes widened when he let her in. "Oh, I see my matchmaking efforts have borne fruit!" She grinned broadly as she pointed at Victor's neck.

Victor rolled his eyes, although the little interlude on the back seat of Sherlock's car had left its mark. Several colourful blotches decorated his neck where Sherlock had clamped down in the heat of the moment. The butterflies in Victor's stomach that morning when he'd seen the results in the mirror had been new and exciting. And it triggered the unspoken desire to get his own back as soon as possible.

"Come on, as if you'd never seen love bites before."

"Not on you! At least not so visible."

Victor went into the common area kitchen with Abigail and poured her some of the coffee he'd made earlier. "Matchmaking, eh?"

Abigail shrugged. "Seemed obvious, you know? I mean, I knew you had a thing for Sherlock and it was pretty clear the thing with Tom wasn't going to end well. By the way, he's moving out: that's what I wanted to tell you yesterday. By the end of the month, at the latest. So if you're still looking for a place..."

"Hm... why so sudden? The two of you always got on so well," Victor said and took a sip of his coffee.

"Yeah... that was before you two got together, sweetheart. And I thought before you drive off my next flatmate too, I might as well ask you directly." Abigail gave him a conspiratorial wink.

Victor reached pensively for the pack of cigarettes on the table, took one out, and lit it. It was an almost perfect opportunity. Rooms in flat shares were incredibly hard to find, and the sooner he got out of the dorm, the better.

"Where's Tom moving then?" he asked more out of a sense of duty, although he couldn't really care less about the answer. It was downright scary how quickly his attitude had changed toward the young man.

Abigail looked speculatively up at the ceiling and folded her arms. "I don't know exactly. I assume another flat share. Or maybe he got a spot in a dorm. The last thing I heard was that his studies weren't going very well. Maybe he's quit."

Victor grunted his understanding. Was it because of him? Or perhaps even Sherlock? He and Tom had worked together in the lab and shouldn't have had any trouble completing the required tasks thanks to Sherlock's prior knowledge. Although Victor had no idea how well or poorly they'd worked together.

"Anyway, I'd be ever so pleased if you said yes," Abigail said, tearing Victor out of his thoughts.

"Where do I sign?" Victor asked with a grin.

 

******

 

Over the next two weeks, Victor spoke to the dorm managers and started packing his things. Although he didn't have much, it did add up to several boxes that he couldn't move easily. Making a spur of the moment decision, he rang Sherlock to ask for help. Sherlock agreed, and they set up a time the following Friday.

Victor arrived at the dorm where Sherlock lived a little earlier than planned. It was a little further away from campus, which at least explained why Sherlock frequently took the car to drive to the university. Victor knew from the information brochures that had been distributed at the start of his studies that this was one of the more expensive facilities, which was obvious just from looking at the building. There was no peeling paint or graffiti; instead, there was a little garden out front where various bushes and hardy plants were growing. All in all, it made a very well-tended impression.

Sherlock's Ford Cortina stood out in front of the property, which couldn't help but bring a smile to Victor's lips. A black Aston Martin DB7 with London number plates was parked directly behind it, which piqued Victor's interest. He rang the buzzer, and a student in a button-down shirt and tie opened the door just a few seconds later.

"I'm here for Holmes," Victor said, raising an eyebrow dubiously. Just as he was let in, Sherlock came down the stairs, waving his hands around defensively as if he were shooing away flies. He was wearing that awful pullover with the yellow and brown stripes again, together with skinny jeans with holes and trainers. A somewhat older man followed behind him, his face expressionless. Too young to be Sherlock's father, but it might be his brother, Victor thought. He apparently wanted to cultivate an air of importance with his elegant three-piece suit and briefcase.

"That was all I could manage, Sherlock. You'll have to wait until the end of the semester – just like everyone else. The rest is dependent on your results," the stranger said, plucking invisible lint from his sleeve. "And do please be so good as to dress appropriately. This outfit is ridiculous, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed loudly, giving free rein to his irritation and frustration. That was unusual. Victor normally knew him to be much more reticent. He had to grin. Apparently Sherlock's style of dress was a form of rebellion against his family.

Victor lifted his hand in greeting when Sherlock turned around and caught sight of him. The brief hesitation in Sherlock's movement didn't escape Victor.

"I'm early," he apologised, swinging his gaze back and forth between Sherlock and the other man.

The broad grin that suddenly appeared on Sherlock's face changed his entire demeanour and made his eyes glint mischievously.

"Mycroft, may I present Victor. Victor, my brother Mycroft," Sherlock said, taking a deliberate step to one side as he clasped his hands behind his back and watched the two in turn as if he were expecting a grandiose scene.

Victor nodded at Mycroft, somewhat nonplussed and unsure what was expected of him. But when he saw the look in Mycroft's eye, he quickly realised what game Sherlock was playing. Mycroft's attention rested on him, cool and stiff, and Victor felt as if he were being virtually dissected.

"Really, Sherlock?" Mycroft said eventually, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He shook his head slightly and twisted his mouth. "Your little revolt will come to an end soon, I hope. We've long since passed the status of ridiculous."

"Oh, do shut up, Mycroft! It's nothing to you what I wear, what I study, or whom I fuck. If you absolutely must interfere in my life, at least make sure the university agrees – and leave the rest to me," Sherlock snapped and whirled around to reach for Victor's hand and pull him outside.

Victor turned around once more, smirked at Mycroft, and followed Sherlock. Rebelling against authority – he was on board for that any time!

They drove back to Victor's dorm together, loaded the boxes and bags into the car, and set out for Abigail's. Fortunately, there wasn't too much baggage, so one trip was enough.

"What do you need the university's agreement for?" Victor asked as they drove.

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip, searching for words. "Not important," he said, but when he saw Victor's challenging look, he sighed in resignation. "I'd like to sit the exams for organic chemistry along with inorganic; physical and theoretical chemistry too."

"Those would be all the exams for the first two semesters..." Victor replied incredulously.

"The first three, to be precise. But some of them are set for the same day, so it would pose some organisational difficulties. For the university, of course. All this bureaucratic rubbish is so annoying. Mycroft needs to exert himself so they give me a separate date. Then I can complete the rest of the courses next semester, and..."

"Are you seriously trying to tell me you're planning on completing uni in one year?"

"Problem?" Sherlock's tone of voice had turned cautious. The excitement with which he'd laid out his plan moments before had given way to a palpable unease. Victor could well understand why. If he were serious – if Sherlock were actually able to manage that amount of studying and pass the exams – then Victor had massively underestimated him. Sure, he'd seen Sherlock's cryptic notes and assumed he was a clever bloke, but his... this went far beyond what he'd imagined. He'd have to be a bloody genius for such an undertaking.

"Why should I have a problem with it? That's... wow... You'll have to tell me how you intend to manage it," Victor said, honestly impressed.

Sherlock's unsettled gaze darted out to the street. Brief sidelong glances brushed Victor, searching, uncertain. "It's... easy for me to remember things. Chemistry's easy. Logical. Same with maths or physics... there's no big secret behind it. Not like... other things..."

"Other things," Victor repeated and grinned when he saw the blood rise to Sherlock's cheeks and Sherlock's eyes fix somewhere straight ahead. He'd have to come back to that comment another time...

 

******

 

Abigail let the two of them in and handed Victor the keys to his new home, but left right away for work. In addition to her studies, she side-lined twice a week in one of the campus libraries.

After Victor and Sherlock had dragged all of the boxes and bags into the flat, they sat down in the kitchen on the uncomfortable folding chairs, drank some tea, and shared a cigarette.

"Is it strange for you to live here? I mean because it's Tom's old room and everything," Sherlock asked, then passed the cigarette to Victor and blew smoke up at the ceiling.

"Not really. This flat was always more Abby's than Tom's. He didn't live here that long."

"Okay," Sherlock said. They fell silent for a while, each lost in his own thoughts, accompanied by the quiet ticking of the kitchen clock. "Listen, I... erm..." Sherlock's fingers nervously traced a dried-out coffee stain on the table. "The thing with Walters..."

Victor raised his head and looked at Sherlock attentively. Ash fell from the tip of the cigarette between his fingers and landed on his shirt. He brushed it off absently.

"Do you think we can do it here?" Sherlock finally asked, pressing his lips into a thin line and avoiding Victor's eye.

_We? Here?_

"We'll see," Victor replied on auto-pilot. But he was cursing inside. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and took a big sip of his coffee, then another, but it didn't help ease the dry feeling in his throat. He lit another cigarette with numb fingers. The smoke only worsened the strange feeling in his chest that was compressing his lungs.

"Do you think you're ready?" Victor didn't even recognise his own voice. It sounded hollow, emotionless. Leaden somehow. His gaze rested on Sherlock's face, on his high cheekbones, his straight nose, followed the curve of his lips, which looked tense. The combination of quicksilver and blue in his irises fascinated Victor, leaving a strangely empty echo behind in him.

"No," Sherlock answered. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and reached for Victor's hand which was holding the cigarette. He rotated it, brought his lips to the filter, and took a puff. Their eyes met again before Sherlock let go. "Not yet." He stood up and made to leave the kitchen. He paused under the archway and looked back over his shoulder. "Coming?" With a single flowing motion, Sherlock pulled his pullover and the t-shirt underneath over his head and disappeared out of Victor's field of vision.

_Bastard_ , Victor swore to himself and grinned before following him.

When he got to his room, Sherlock was already standing at the window, looking out. He'd tossed his t-shirt and pullover onto the bare mattress. Victor studied Sherlock's naked back for a moment: the raised vertebrae, the shape of his shoulder blades. The urge to go to him, wrap his arms around him, and pull him close, was immense. Instead, Victor closed the door, leaned back against it, and waited.

He watched a small shudder ripple through Sherlock before he lifted his arms and ran both hands through his short hair, down the back of his neck to his shoulders. His hands ventured further, to his chest, his stomach, down to his hips. The sound of the zip made goose pimples skitter down Victor's back. He watched in fascination as Sherlock slid his trousers and underpants down his legs, removing his socks at the same time. Then pushed everything carelessly away.

Victor's heart was hammering impatiently against his ribs. Desire was building up inside him, crowding out all of the negative feelings of the emptiness that had attempted to overpower him earlier. But now... Sherlock. Naked. In his room... Any talk of desire would have been an inexcusable understatement.

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes shadowy and dark. Searching. Slowly, he turned around. Showed himself. All of him. Long limbs, slender hips. His penis in a dark nest of hair, half-hard.

Victor's breath caught. He tried to conceal the inadvertent reaction by taking an inaudible breath and letting it out again with an air of ennui. The door at his back gave him support, reinforced him, allowed him to appear casual and relaxed despite the tension. Dominant. It had the desired effect on Sherlock, who looked off to the side uncertainly, his fingers fluttering nervously against his palms. He took a step forward, hesitated, and finally headed for the bed.

"Stop," Victor commanded him coolly. "Come here."

Bare feet on the hardwood floor. Sherlock looked in Victor's direction but not directly at him. He must have been focusing on a spot beside Victor's head in order to convey a confident air. The facade broke down when the corner of Victor's mouth twitched sardonically, and Sherlock blushed. He was embarrassed to be naked while Victor was still wearing all of his clothes. But he'd set the conditions himself.

"What do you want from me?" Victor asked calmly, leaning his head back and letting his gaze wander slowly and provocatively down Sherlock's body. "Should I suck you? Make everything come true that I told you in the car?"

The Adam's apple in Sherlock's throat leapt when he swallowed hard and tried desperately to withstand the teasing. His hands felt across his bare thighs, seeking something to hold on to, seeking some way to protect his exposed body, seeking the courage that had been so present just moments before but which was now draining away like sand.

"Say something."

Sherlock bit his lips. A flash in his eye. "Yes..."

"Yes, what?"

"I..." Sherlock stuttered and looked down at the floor. "I want you to... suck me."

A smirk stole across Victor's lips. "That's it. Although I'm not the one who wanted to practise before his big day. You don't want to embarrass yourself in front of Walters, do you? Come on, then. Show me what you've got."

The uncertainty in Sherlock's expression was virtually palpable. He stood just a few steps away from Victor, lost and unsure how to proceed. He looked over at the bed, considering the best alternative to tackle the task he'd been set.

"Right here is totally okay, Sherlock. Get down on your knees," Victor ordered him smugly and watched as Sherlock obeyed the directive after only a brief hesitation. He covered the remaining distance on restless legs and lowered himself to the floor between Victor's feet.

Victor didn't move. It was his turn, and he was going to savour it, was going to drive Sherlock to the edge of the abyss. Was going to show him what it meant to play ruthlessly with other people's emotions.

It took a prompting motion from Victor's head before Sherlock finally moved. His hands on Victor's thighs, his face pressed against his crotch, he looked up at Victor.

Victor swallowed down the catty comment that a blowjob through his trousers wasn't the point of the activity, waiting until Sherlock finally fumbled at Victor's belt. He impatiently undid the trouser button, tugged at the zip, and ran both hands over the bulge in the cloth. At the edge of his consciousness, he vaguely registered Victor spontaneously reaching for the collar of his shirt and pulling it off over his head, then tossing it carelessly into the closest corner.

Slowly, almost reverently, Sherlock slid Victor's jeans past his hips and pushed them down his legs until they pooled in a heap at his feat. Using his nose, his lips, and the tip of his tongue, he nudged Victor's erection beneath the last layer of material before shoving his hands inside and finally removing Victor's underpants as well.

Victor clenched his teeth together at the sight he was offered. Sherlock on his knees, his face red with shame, staring at the erect cock just a few centimetres away from that inviting mouth, that teachable tongue, and that intoxicating heat. It took more willpower than Victor wanted to admit not to hurry things along, to grab Sherlock's head and take what he wanted; what he bloody well needed.

When Sherlock's tongue finally licked the head experimentally, Victor couldn't hold back a soft moan. Encouraged, Sherlock repeated the action, exploring the swollen tip bit by bit, feeling his way across the frenulum and the glans, checking every reaction twice and memorising it. He wrapped his lips somewhat tentatively around Victor's erection, eliciting another low sigh from Victor.

It was difficult for Sherlock to coordinate. With one hand, he stabilised the shaft while he dug the other into Victor's thigh to anchor himself. He couldn't manage to vary the depth of penetration inside his mouth, take in air, and control the flow of his saliva. He kept interrupting himself to take a breath, to swallow, to wipe his chin. But his determination made Victor have mercy on him after several thoroughly enjoyable minutes.

"Not bad... not bad at all. Now let me..."

"Not yet," Sherlock panted and resumed his efforts, increasing them as much as he could, resolutely licking and sucking, his arms wrapped around Victor's thighs. Victor let his head roll back, moaning. His fingers ran through Sherlock's short hair, moving with him. Arousal vibrated throughout his body, making his hips jerk. Biting down on his lips, he thrust over and over into the wet hollow of Sherlock's mouth, enjoying the dizzying sensations.

Sherlock held still, concentrating on his breathing, the pressure of his lips, his tongue. He whimpered softly and tears formed in his eyes when Victor pushed deep into his mouth. He looked up, blinking, to see Victor's expression unravelling. Sherlock's brain seemed to have gone completely offline. He was ruled by one single thought: what he was doing, that he was the cause of the other man's reaction, that Victor was about to come.

" _Oh_... Sherlock..." Victor groaned, short of breath, and grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, pulled out of his mouth, and grasped his erection with his free hand. He rubbed the head impatiently to bring himself to climax. White stripes of semen sprayed onto Sherlock's chin and dripped onto his chest.

Fascinated by Victor's orgasm and disappointed at having been robbed of his prize, Sherlock observed the other man. His blissful expression, his torso rising and falling with his heaving breaths, the red lines on his thighs where Sherlock's nails had unwittingly dug in. He reached for his own cock with shaky fingers, jerking the shaft to chase his own climax. A shudder ran through him when Victor met his eye, wild and dark.

Before he knew what was happening, Victor had pulled him to his feet and was kissing him hard, pushing his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's knees protested painfully after having knelt on the hard floor for so long.

"Wait a second," Victor ordered and moved away from Sherlock to go over to one of the bags they'd moved into the room along with the boxes. He pulled open the zip and drew out a dark blue blanket that he tossed temporarily over the bare mattress and tugged it straight. Without wasting any more time, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled him in close, kissing him again and pushing him onto the bed.

He leaned over, kissing and licking Sherlock's thighs and grazing his teeth lightly across his skin. When Sherlock leaned up on his elbows in order to see better, Victor put one knee between Sherlock's legs and pushed him back down onto the mattress. Heated lips blazed a trail across Sherlock's chest, each individual rib, his flat stomach, lingered on the prominent hipbones and briefly brushed his erection.

Sherlock followed the touches as if frozen in place, arching up toward Victor's mouth, desperate for the tongue and teeth that were teasing him so. Victor pushed his hips back down, almost impatient, forced his thighs apart, and slipped his lower arms underneath Sherlock's knees in order to pull him closer. He slid the flat of his tongue along Sherlock's stiff cock, licking again from root to tip, and hummed smugly when he heard the helpless gasp that escaped Sherlock's lips.

Victor let Sherlock's erection slide into his mouth, taking it in as deep as he could, and encircled Sherlock's hips, which were jerking euphorically. He varied the pressure and speed, let Sherlock's cock slip out of mouth again, and probed his taut testicles with the tip of his tongue. He gently suckled the sensitive skin there while he rubbed Sherlock's glans with one hand.

Sherlock moaned out loud, out of his mind, kept repeating some unintelligible words that he himself didn't even seem to be aware of. He had both hands buried in the blanket next to his head in an attempt to somehow deal with the assault on his body. A strong tingling sensation flooded his pelvis when Victor sucked hard on the inside of his thigh. It was both painful and incredibly arousing, and it left behind an obvious mark.

Victor pushed his shoulders in underneath Sherlock's knees and leaned forward so that they touched Sherlock's chest. Holding him in that position, Victor lowered his head and deposited feather-light kisses on Sherlock's flushed erection, catching the precome at the slit before diving in deeper. He kissed his way across Sherlock's balls, dragged his tongue over his perineum, and exerted a slight amount of pressure there.

Sherlock made a choked sound when Victor's tongue probed his hole, lazily dabbling around the ring of muscle. He quivered uncontrollably when the flat of that tongue slid slowly across the spot, hot and wet. Again and again. He stroked his erection with trembling fingers and moaned. The need to come was unbearable. But Victor pushed his hand away with his head and replaced it with his mouth. A desperate whimper struggled its way out of Sherlock's throat.

"Oh God... please..." Throwing his head back, Sherlock bit down hard on his lip, trying vainly to hold back the lust-soaked sounds when he came, whiting out the world around him. Endorphins flooded every one of his cells. All of the energy drained out of him, leaving behind a leaden weight that seeped into all of his limbs. He lay gasping on the bed, his eyes closed, and tried to sort through all of the sensations flowing through his body.

He could still feel Victor's mouth depositing gentle kisses on his stomach and chest then wandering up his neck. When he opened his eyes, he saw Victor's face hovering over him. He instinctively flung his arms around the other man and pulled him into a deep kiss.

They lay beside each other for several minutes, enjoying the warmth and closeness of each other's bodies, stroking skin and hair, cuddling close together. It was now dark outside. It had started to snow.

"I need to get going," Sherlock said after a while and pushed himself up, shoving Victor's hand off his stomach.

"Do you really need to...?"

Sherlock made a sound of affirmation, got up, and gathered up his clothes so he could get dressed. He slipped into his pants and pulled his black jeans up over his long legs.

Victor got up too and stood behind Sherlock just as he was zipping up his jeans, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's bare upper body. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's nape, breathing in his scent.

_Don't go..._

Victor's guts contracted painfully at the thought of being left alone in this room.

_Stay..._

He couldn't bring himself to voice the request.

Sherlock freed himself from the embrace and picked up the wadded-up ball consisting of t-shirt and pullover from the bed so he could pull it apart. His face was expressionless and closed-off, as if he were somewhere else entirely. As if the last couple of hours they'd spent together had never happened.

Victor sighed resignedly and squared his shoulders. He moved the few steps to the door where his things lay on the floor, got dressed, and brushed his hair sloppily off his forehead.

"Well then," Sherlock said, walking past him into the hallway. "We'll be seeing each other, all right?"

"Sure." Victor followed Sherlock, his face blank, but turned aside into the kitchen. He listened as Sherlock stepped into his shoes, pulled on his jacket, and opened the door. He left the flat without a word of good-bye.

Victor numbly leaned against the kitchen cupboard and stared into the coffee cup he'd intended to fill.

A moment later there was a bang. Shards of ceramic skittered across the laminate flooring and lay there, unnoticed.

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Something that reminds me of Victor ^^](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rB6mXBWrPXY)


	18. February 1995, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

Since Victor lived with Abigail now, he'd decided to set to rights some of the things that had been studiously neglected by the other residents. First of all, he changed out all of the burnt-out light bulbs and stocked up on provisions, which he put away in the kitchen. Then he arranged for the removal and disposal of the old, worn-out sofa so that no one else got it into their head to give it another chance.

He bought another sofa – also second-hand, but in fairly good condition. It was a three-seater upholstered in an attractive dark-green cotton. There was an old red-wine stain in one spot that could easily be concealed with a pillow. He also got a couple of sensible chairs for the kitchen so that the rickety folding chairs could be put away into storage for emergencies.

His room was also taking shape. He'd taken stock of the furnishings that had been left and fixed them up where necessary. His desk now stood along the wall by the door, and the bed was on the opposite side between the single casement windows. He'd pushed the wardrobe and the bookcase behind the door and filled them with everything from his boxes and bags.

He was still studying for the semester finals, and often shuttled back and forth between lectures, the laboratory, and the natural sciences library. From time to time, he saw Sherlock sitting there. He barely had eyes for anything other than his beakers and books. It was useless to try and start a conversation with him, because aside from a greeting – if that – it was impossible to get anything out of him.

His brother Mycroft had obviously been successful in registering Sherlock for three semesters' worth of exams at the same time. There was no other explanation for the zeal with which Sherlock was going at it. The astonishing part was that he hardly took any notes. Victor had watched Sherlock read several chapters, then sit frozen in place and stare at an invisible point in mid-air. The scene was then repeated after a short time.

Victor had no idea how to deal with the forced silence. It made him angry to be left hanging in this zero gravity field. Tossed back and forth between his emotions and what he perceived. Because this 'relationship' – if one had the courage to call it that – with Sherlock was ideal. No strings, no rules. But the thought that it was all just a game, a warm-up for the man Sherlock was actually interested in not embarrassing himself with, gnawed constantly at Victor's gut.

One morning in February, when Sherlock was once again completely ignoring him in the library, Victor decided he'd had enough. He was going to put an end to this and set things straight. Clear out the feelings that were holding his breath hostage and find the way back to his old self. He went out and found the closest pay phone and made a call. When he looked at the clock afterwards, he decided there wouldn't be any better time.

Victor went to the lecture room where 'Japanese Literature' was being held that semester. The meeting had already begun, but Victor didn't care about that. With a brief nod of his head in Walters' direction which might have been either an apology for the disturbance or a sign of defiance, Victor strode across the room to the row where Abigail was sitting. She greeted him with frantic gestures, beaming broadly.

"What are you doing here?!" Abigail asked in a whisper. "Sherlock's not even here today," she added unnecessarily.

"I know. He's studying in the library." Victor stretched out his legs under the table and folded his arms over his chest. His gaze slid over to Ryan, who was giving a monologue on some Japanese author or other that Victor had never heard of in his life. However, Victor hadn't missed the flash in the lecturer's eye when he'd entered the room. Had Ryan already given up hope that Victor would contact him?

When the class was finished, Victor leaned over to Abigail and whispered, "Go on ahead, I have something to discuss with the professor."

"O... kay," Abigail answered, unconvinced. "Just don't do anything stupid, all right?"

"Who, me?" Victor watched his sceptical friend until she'd left the room with everyone else.

"So we meet again," Ryan said smoothly, glancing over at Victor as he packed his papers into his briefcase. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Victor stood up unhurriedly and strolled over to the desk at the front of the room. His eyes wandered over the lecturer, his friendly face, his attractive figure in its perfectly tailored grey suit... if things had been different, he would have done this a long time ago. But the way things stood... he swiftly swept the thought aside, focussing instead on his plan.

"We should meet up," Victor said, fixing Ryan with a look. The way Ryan drew in a breath told Victor that his suggestion had had its desired effect.

"When?" Ryan asked, and Victor smirked. It was too easy with this man. He'd been waiting for a sign for weeks, and now he was apparently more than willing to seize the opportunity.

"Next Tuesday."

Ryan chuckled softly, shaking his head a bit – not to turn down the offer, but because he couldn't believe he was actually agreeing to this. Or that something like this was happening to him. "All right, fine, Tuesday. And where is this meeting supposed to take place?"

Victor held out a piece of paper the size of a business card. An address was printed on it, and three numbers were handwritten on the back. He placed it in Ryan's hand, brushing his fingers as he did, without breaking eye contact.

"Eight o'clock."

 

******

 

On Tuesday afternoon, Victor wandered through the university looking for Sherlock. He didn't find him in the lab this time, but rather in the reading room of the natural sciences library. He planted himself firmly beside Sherlock, who was sitting in front of three open books, reading entries on physical and theoretical chemistry. Victor snapped his fingers under Sherlock's nose to get the other student's attention.

Sherlock blinked with irritation and displeasure as he looked up at Victor. "What?!" he snapped, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

Victor reached for one of the book covers and closed the tome with a dull _whump_. They were both hit by filthy looks from the other library visitors whose concentration had been disturbed.

"Come with me," Victor commanded, grabbing Sherlock's backpack so that he had a reason to follow. The low muttering behind him confirmed that Sherlock was obediently doing what he'd been told.

There was a coffee machine right outside the reading room. Victor lowered Sherlock's backpack to the floor and put a coin into the machine, which spit out a cup, then hummed and streamed steaming hot liquid into it. Victor folded his arms as he waited and met Sherlock's eye.

"I'm giving you two more hours, Sherlock. Then you're finished for the day and you're going out with me," Victor declared solemnly and handed Sherlock the cup of coffee.

"I have things to do," Sherlock retorted, although he did take a grateful sip of the hot beverage.

"I realise that, but you can't study without any breaks at all. Or maybe you can, I don't know. And I don't care. You owe me one, you know?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed with a combination of suspicion and uncertainty. As if he first had to examine the statement more closely before agreeing to or rejecting it.

"Right, then – I'll fetch you from your dorm at seven. You should be done by then. And no striped jumpers tonight, got it?" Victor said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth when he saw Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"Whatever you say..." was his dry response before he crumpled up the empty plastic cup and tossed it into the bin next to the coffee machine. He picked up his backpack and went back into the reading room.

 

******

 

"Dates are weird," Sherlock proclaimed as he turned at an intersection. Victor had told him the general direction, but was now staring absentmindedly out the window. At Sherlock's words, he turned to him and made a questioning sound.

"Why do people go on dates?" Sherlock asked earnestly.

"To have fun? To do something together... something both people enjoy..." Victor tried to explain, well aware how hollow the answer sounded.

"Because they wouldn't do it otherwise? Have fun, I mean? Turn right here?"

"Yeah, right and then keep going straight. Of course you can have fun together otherwise, but dates are something... special. You specifically make time for each other, give each other the attention that often goes missing in the stress of the daily grind, get to know each other better..."

"Dull." Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"You must have had an awful lot of dates already in order to pass a judgment like that, Sherlock!" Victor responded with a large portion of sarcasm in his tone. "Wait and see – maybe you'll like it after all. Turn in here."

They parked in an underground car park and got out, walked to the closest lift, and rode it up. Victor checked his watch and took a deep breath. He felt Sherlock's probing gaze on his face but didn't return it.

"A hotel then..." Sherlock said, shifting his weight restlessly from one foot to the other as he watched the lights leaping from one floor to the next on the display.

"Excellent observation," Victor replied and exited the lift when it stopped on the fourth floor. He strode confidently down the hall, checking the room numbers, and took a key out of his trouser pocket. He stopped in front of room 403 and unlocked it.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice how nervous Victor was. It was clear from the tension in his shoulders and the trembling in his fingers. And it was contagious. He chewed unconsciously on his bottom lip as he followed Victor inside the hotel room.

And froze.

The room was generously sized. In addition to the obligatory double bed, there was a dresser, a television, and a coffee table. And on the chesterfield behind it sat Ryan Walters, his legs crossed, with a glass of wine in his hand. When he saw the two new arrivals, he set the glass down and stood up, a wide grin on his face. The door fell shut behind Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes met Victor's, utterly bewildered. Victor returned the look coolly and calmly.

"There you are! Nice to see the two of you," Ryan said and approached. Victor watched as Ryan grasped Sherlock's hand and held it for a while, looking deep into his eyes. Sherlock's gaze darted nervously over the lecturer's face before finally stopping on his mouth. The hand holding Sherlock's seemed to have a calming effect on him.

"Have a seat. I took the liberty of ordering us wine. I hope you like red?" Ryan spoke in a casual tone in order to soften the awkwardness of the situation. Victor carefully rested his hand on Sherlock's back, lightly nudging him towards the sofa, then sat down next to him.

As soon as they were seated, a glass was placed in Sherlock's hand. He stared at the reflections dancing on the dark red surface of the liquid as if hypnotised. Ryan sat to the right of Sherlock and Victor to his left; both men took a glass as well. The heavy scent of wine infiltrated Victor's nose, tickling his palate. He took a sip, even though he didn't particularly like red wine, and set the glass back down on the table. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, as if it were trying to free itself from the chill grip that held it fast.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought Sherlock along. He insisted on getting to know you better," Victor said as if it were a scripted line, and touched Sherlock's arm. It was likely intended as an encouraging gesture, but he couldn't fool himself.

Sherlock glanced down at the hand, then into Victor's face. Quicksilver-blue eyes gave him a searching look. Questioning. As if expecting additional instructions; as if Sherlock didn't know the rules for this game.

"And how could I say no to that? It's just a shame you missed the last two lectures, Sherlock," Ryan said, drawing Sherlock's attention to him.

"I had a lot to do." His response was curt, precise, accurate. No trace of nervousness remained in his voice.

"Then I should feel honoured that you've made time tonight..." Ryan said in a low voice, reaching out one hand toward Sherlock's face. His fingers traced a delicate line across Sherlock's cheek, his jaw, under his chin, lifting it. The first kiss was no more than a feather-light touch, but Victor could feel the shiver than ran through the body beside him.

It was time, Victor thought, and leaned into Sherlock, against his head. Buried his nose in Sherlock's short locks just for a moment and breathed in the familiar scent. His hand found its way to Sherlock's thigh as if of its own accord; his thumb gently caressed the rough fabric there. His lips brushed the shell of Sherlock's ear, almost a kiss, as he whispered: "He's all yours... happy Valentine's Day..."

And that was it. He needed to get out of here. Now.

Victor pulled himself together and stood up, turning away. But a hand reached for his wrist, holding him back.

"Stay."

 

+++

tbc

 

 


	19. February 1995, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a goodly portion of dubious consent (dub-con).
> 
> +++
> 
> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

Victor stayed.

He stared down at the hand holding fast to his. Ryan's hand. But it was Sherlock's words that made him stop. How could he say no? How could he deny himself to Sherlock? Sherlock, who made his heartbeat ratchet up a notch every time Victor looked at him. Whose voice cut straight to his core. Making something in him start to hum that he'd thought lost up to just a few moments ago.

Sherlock wanted to have him here. Wanted to make the 'we' come true that he'd carelessly mentioned in the kitchen not long ago. Even if Sherlock only wanted a guiding hand, backup, someone he trusted... _someone he trusted_ … wasn't that already much more than Victor had dared hope?

After all, he'd started this whole thing. As a lark. As a bit of fun in passing. How could Victor have anticipated everything that it would do to him? How could he have guessed what he would have to lose at this game?

The air in the room crackled with tension. Both men looked up at him as if waiting for a signal to begin. They were going to get it. Victor slid his knee onto the couch next to Sherlock, holding himself up with one hand on the seat back, and leaned down to him. Kissed him. Not gently, not tenderly, but desperately and full of desire. Sherlock made a startled noise and grabbed hold of Victor's shirt so as not to be knocked off balance.

Creating just a few millimetres of distance between them, Victor caught Sherlock's eye and tried to read something there. Anything. He didn't know what. Maybe a confirmation. Or fear. Or affection. Love. He couldn't make any sense of the black islands floating in metallic seas, sucking him into their depths like a vortex.

The warm hand on Victor's back brought him back to the surface, making the other man visible, his eyes glowing with a dark flame. Ryan was apparently more than happy with the way things were developing. The corners of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile, and Victor might well have found him irresistible if his head and heart hadn't been filled to the brim with images of Sherlock.

But this here was for Sherlock, and he'd deal with everything else in order to give Sherlock what he wanted. Victor shifted his weight and leaned toward Ryan, pulling him into a kiss by his dark blue tie. An enraptured sigh sounded and soft lips parted, returning the gesture more than willingly.

A quick sidelong glance revealed a rather taken Sherlock biting his lips unconsciously at the scene laid out before him. Victor slipped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and nudged him closer, let go of Ryan, and kissed Sherlock again.

Lips met in various constellations, tongues snaking hungrily around each other. Hands wandered, searching for skin, points of contact, tearing clothing from shoulders and arms and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

It was Ryan who finally stood and pulled Sherlock up with him, pressed him back against Victor, and deposited one kiss after another onto his torso as he unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers. Victor inserted his hands between himself and Sherlock, caressed his shoulder blades with sweeping strokes, traced the line of his spine, felt along every rib with the tips of his fingers. His thumbs slid over the little dimples of Sherlock's lower back, slipped inside his waistband, and helped move it past Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as his head fell back, landing on Victor's shoulder. Victor gazed past Sherlock to watch as Ryan worked his way across Sherlock's chest and flat stomach with his lips and tongue. Victor wrapped his arms around Sherlock, stroking his neck, his collarbone, down his waist and hips, following the trail that Ryan blazed, wiping every kiss from Sherlock's skin. Held him when Ryan's mouth enclosed Sherlock's erection and made him moan.

Victor ran his tongue around the shell of Sherlock's ear, nipping at it gently when Sherlock reached behind him for something to stabilise him, getting his fingers tangled in Victor's long hair. He felt the twitch in Sherlock's hips as they surged lewdly toward the warm mouth and turned Sherlock's head so that he could catch the sweet moans dripping from his lips.

Ryan made use of his position to liberate Sherlock from his shoes, socks, and trousers, while his tongue continued teasing across Sherlock's erect cock, playing with him and testing the limits of his control. Ryan reached past Sherlock's legs to stroke Victor's thighs. Victor slipped out of his shoes by freeing his heels with the help of the toe of the opposite shoe.

"Go to the bed," Victor murmured in Sherlock's ear, nudging him gently to one side.

Somewhat dazed, Sherlock complied and crawled into the middle of the bed, dropped onto his side, and looked over at the others, breathing hard. Victor raised an eyebrow archly and looked down at Ryan, who was still right next to him. The sight of the man kneeling in his button-down and suit trousers, his tie askew and his hair tousled, his lips kissed raw and pure unquenched desire in his eyes, aroused Victor more than he would ever have thought possible.

Something buried deep down stirred inside him. Something dark that was just waiting to be released from its lead. The feeling both shocked and titillated him. But Ryan seemed to be speaking to whatever it was directly, as if he'd been waiting for it. Even just the way he looked at Victor, the way he leaned into him slightly, as if he were going to pounce any second – like a predator.

Victor was hard as a rock by now and more than willing to release a little of the dark energy that was buzzing just under the surface of his skin. He set his legs shoulder-width apart, slowly undid his trousers with a smirk, and pushed them far enough down his hips to free his erect cock.

"So you like to suck dicks, eh?" he needled Ryan as he casually rubbed his erection with his thumb. He grinned knowingly when he saw the lecturer's eager nod. Ryan scooted closer to him, his wet lips opened in anticipation, his eyes fixed on Victor's. Victor raked his fingers through Ryan's hair almost affectionately, placing one hand on the back of his head. With the other hand, he grasped his own cock, making the foreskin slide back and forth over the swollen head a couple of times and enjoying the feel of the friction.

"Show me," Victor said in a gruff voice and pushed into Ryan's willing mouth.

Ryan sighed happily, as if he'd waited forever for that moment. His hands dug into Victor's arse, pulling him closer, deeper.  
Victor inhaled with a hiss then let the air out amidst minuscule shivers zapping through his groin. He hadn't expected Ryan to display such enthusiasm. It somewhat dimmed his previous desire to throw the other man off, humiliate him a little.

Victor glanced over at Sherlock to check on him: he was watching everything intently. What must be going through his head? The scene seemed to please him, but his distance from the proceedings didn't seem to bother him either. His pupils were dark with lust, his breaths flat and choppy. He rubbed and stroked the cock in his hand at an agonisingly slow pace, perhaps to mimic the feeling that was coursing through Victor's body at the moment.

"Enough," Victor growled and yanked Ryan's head back so he could bend down and press his lips onto his mouth. "Get undressed."

While Victor took his trousers all the way off and went over to the bed, Ryan stood up and loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped out of his own trousers. He went over to the couch, nude, laid his clothes across it, and took something out of his blazer.

By now, Victor had pulled Sherlock close, put his arms around him, and was kissing his way up his neck to his mouth, where he nibbled at the full lips with great pleasure. He registered Ryan dropping a few packets of condoms like sweets on the nightstand, then the dip of the mattress when he lay down behind Sherlock. Sherlock twisted his upper body so that he could face Ryan, running his trembling fingers across Ryan's chest and neck, pleading for a kiss.

Victor looked up when he heard the conspicuous snick of a plastic lid being opened. He watched Ryan squeeze some lube out of a tube while he continued to kiss Sherlock. Their eyes met: knowing and hungry. Victor nestled in closer to Sherlock and turned his head back so that he could push his tongue into Sherlock's mouth again and tenderly tease its counterpart. At the same time, he reached for Sherlock's erection, rubbing the tip assertively and eliciting a sigh of longing.

Ryan's hand slid down Sherlock's body and between his arse cheeks, his long fingers resolutely smearing the gel onto his hole. Gasping for air, Sherlock dug into Victor's nape and let out a cut-off sound when one finger, then two, pushed inside him. His body writhed and jerked at the mercy of the hands methodically stimulating him; he didn't seem to be in control of it any more.

Victor and Ryan deposited random kisses on Sherlock's body between them, finding each other now and then, digging their teeth in wherever they could reach, and licking salt off heated skin.

When Victor saw Sherlock's blissed-out expression, his pink cheeks, his lips glistening wetly, something inside him clenched painfully. Pure desire washed over him, tugging at him. His hand felt its way in between Sherlock's legs, right where Ryan's fingers were penetrating his trembling body. Three fingers slipped inside, over and over, without any resistance, stimulating nerve endings and setting off the most wonderful reactions. A wet spot of pre-ejaculate dampened Sherlock's abdomen where his erect cock kept tapping against it with the jerking motion of his hips.

Ryan took Victor's intervention as a prompt to proceed to the next step. He withdrew his hand, sat up, and reached for one of the little foil packets, tore it open, and unrolled the condom over his cock. The intention was clear. Victor swallowed hard. Everything in him fought the idea of Ryan entering Sherlock, that he would be his first. That he would leave an impression on him. Leave something of himself behind as a marker. Forever.

Ryan turned over again, scooted back on the bed, and grabbed onto Sherlock in order to slide in between his legs.

"No."

Sherlock stilled for a moment. He had rolled his head to one side, his eyes closed and his breath irregular, and was holding onto the pillow with both hands. His eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unsteady and confused. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins, fogging his mind. He watched as Victor grabbed Ryan's upper arm and held on hard. His skin white where the fingers dug into his flesh. Irritation flashed on Ryan's face.

"He belongs to me," Victor stated in a grim voice, brooking no argument.

Sherlock exhaled the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. A wave of relief washed over him that he couldn't quite explain.

"If you say so," Ryan grumbled and moved aside, pulled the condom off his cock, and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. He then knelt at the head of the bed while Victor clasped Sherlock's hips and pulled him closer, a mixture of lust and regret on his face.

"I can't let him," Victor whispered against Sherlock's lips, so low that Ryan couldn't hear it.

But Sherlock did. He grasped Victor's face in both hands and kissed him gently. "I want you... I wanted you from the very start," Sherlock whispered just as softly and pressed his body up against Victor's. A condom appeared under Victor's nose. He looked up in surprise, only to see Ryan's enigmatic smile, but he took the prophylactic and rolled it down over his erection. After spreading some lube around, he bent over Sherlock once more.

"Slow and gentle – just like I promised you. Tell me if I should stop," Victor said in a low voice and waited until Sherlock nodded his agreement. Victor let his hands wander tenderly across Sherlock's body, taking note of every detail. Trying at the same time to calm himself down enough so that he could keep his promise. He arranged Sherlock's legs over his thighs, stabilised his erect penis with one hand, and cautiously moved forward.

He penetrated Sherlock's body slowly, biting his lips. The incredible tightness and heat tore at his willpower. But Sherlock's heavy breaths and drawn-together brows reminded him to keep still until he'd adjusted to the unfamiliar sensations. Only then did Victor slide in deeper, breathing steadily.

It was with mixed feelings that his eye fell on Ryan, who was kneeling at the head of the bed, stroking Sherlock's hair and upper body and murmuring soothing words. Victor would have liked nothing better than to chase him out of the room, but his touches actually did seem to have a calming effect on Sherlock. Victor impatiently tried to filter the other man out and concentrate on what he was doing.

Positioning his elbows on either side of Sherlock's head, he kissed his way across Sherlock's face, catching the parted lips and the soft sighs. When Victor was all the way inside him, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Victor's neck and arched his pelvis up toward him wantonly. It was like heaven! Tight and hot and _Sherlock_. Sherlock, who surrounded him with his entire body, with his arms and legs. Who was moving with him. Becoming one. Finally.

"That's right. Nice and slow." Ryan's voice was like audio interference that cut through the beautiful  moment of togetherness. Victor reluctantly focused his gaze on him and saw that Ryan was pleasuring himself, frantically jacking his cock as he panted softly. With his free hand, he reached for Sherlock's chin, drew his head back, and guided the head of his cock into Sherlock's slightly opened mouth.

Sherlock immediately froze up and made a choking sound, which prompted Ryan to press further forward into Sherlock's throat. Victor swore and pushed against Ryan's chest, shoving him firmly aside so that he could move Sherlock up and shield him better with his body. Sherlock seemed to quickly forget the incident when Victor inadvertently hit a sensitive spot inside him, making him groan loudly.

"Do that again!" he demanded and cursed breathlessly when Victor repeated the manoeuvre, and a wave of ecstasy flooded his body. Ryan Walters was forgotten. Victor focused completely on Sherlock and the wonderful reactions he was triggering in him. He didn't notice Ryan stand up, put on another condom, and smear lubricant on it. Nor how he walked around the bed and knelt down behind Victor. It wasn't until a hand grabbed the back of Victor's neck and pulled him roughly up that he realised what was happening.

"Are you trying to shut me out, Victor? Don't forget that you summoned me here so I could fuck the kid. And I'm going to fuck him when you're done. Not slow and gentle like you, but hard and fast the way I like it... and he's not going to forget it. I'm going to push him down into the mattress, do you hear me, and fuck him so deep he'll feel like he's going to explode!" Ryan whispered the words in a voice of foreboding right in Victor's ear, making him break out in goose pimples that spread like lightning across his body.

On the one hand, he wanted to punch Ryan in the face for saying that; break his nose and extinguish the self-satisfied grin perched on his lips. On the other hand – and Victor hated himself for it – the very same words set off an immense surge of lust that flowed directly into his groin and made him thrust hard in reflex. Sherlock's loud moan brought him back to reality.

"Fuck you, Ryan!" Victor hissed and threw a blazing look over his shoulder. But Ryan just chuckled softly and wrapped one arm around Victor's neck, as if he intended to cut off his air supply. He teased Victor's ear with his lips, nibbling almost tenderly on it. Victor's movements had more or less come to a halt; only his hands were still stroking Sherlock's thighs and hips as if to calm him, to give him a sense of security.

"I'd rather fuck you. After all, wasn't that the point from the start?" Ryan murmured and pressed his erection against Victor's arse, rubbing up and down between his buttocks. "You'll enjoy it, Victor... all you need to do is relax and let me do it."

"Then bloody well have at it," Victor growled and reluctantly allowed Ryan to kiss him. Ryan didn't need any more invitation than that. He grasped Victor's waist with both hands and bent him forward so he was holding himself up next to Sherlock's head.

 _Better me than Sherlock_... Victor thought to himself, catching Sherlock's glassy stare.

Sherlock had barely been aware of any of the exchange and must have interpreted the whole thing as a short break. He clasped Victor's face and stretched up to kiss him and tease him with his tongue.

Victor sighed and let himself sink into the kiss, nestling in close to Sherlock while Ryan's finger pushed insistently into his body. It wasn't exactly pleasant; Ryan was too rushed and impatient due to his arousal. Victor hissed as he inhaled and bit his lips when Ryan shoved his cock inside him a short while later. The fleetingly prepared muscles protested loudly. Pain flashed through his body, throbbing in every vein. He broke out in a cold sweat which shimmered in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. A choked-off sound struggled free of his throat when Ryan pulled back a little and then thrust forward forcefully. Again and again.

"Oh, yeah... my God, you feel fantastic!" Ryan gasped and grabbed Victor by the hair, pulling it until Victor's back was bent back at an almost unnatural angle, and drove in deeper. With the other hand, he held onto Victor's hip, leaving bright red imprints on his pale skin.

"It's almost like I'm fucking both of you at once, don't you think?" Ryan moaned and pushed against the back of Victor's neck with both hands, forcing his head down into the crook of Sherlock's neck without interrupting his movements.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Victor, holding him hard, not sure what exactly was happening. Was this still pleasure? Was this the excessive passion that overcame people in the heat of the moment? His lust-clouded brain needed a moment to realise that Victor's arousal had definitely diminished; his erection had deflated somewhat, even though he could still feel it inside him. Irritated, he looked up at Ryan, who returned the look with an arrogant smile.

Victor dug into Sherlock's shoulders, seeking an anchor point, his breath coming in stuttered gasps. It seemed to take forever for the pain to go away, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. His arousal was slow to regain the upper hand, and Victor noticed for the first time how Ryan was stimulating the hypersensitive nerves inside him. How that stimulation went straight to his groin, making him shiver and get hard again.

"All right?" Sherlock asked uncertainly, completely out of his league when it came to assessing the situation.

"Yes," Victor muttered, "just kiss me..." Relieved that his body had mostly given in to the sudden onslaught, Victor adjusted better to the tempo being set and concentrated on Sherlock.

Sherlock was only too eager to comply with the demand, convinced that Victor had everything under control. He kissed and caressed Victor's lips, his tongue, the inside of his mouth. One hand on Victor's sweat-damp back, the other in his blond hair, Sherlock pulled his friend as close to him as he could, rolling his hips up toward him insistently, or as well as he could under Victor's weight.

Victor returned the kisses passionately, holding fast to Sherlock and the sense of security he was radiating. He felt the uncertainty slowly drain away from Sherlock, making way for a lust-filled trembling as he lost himself more and more in what he was feeling.

"Touch yourself," Victor breathed out against Sherlock's lips. "I want to feel you when you come... want to see your face."

Sherlock shakily inserted his hand between their perspiring bodies, grasping his twitching erection. It took barely a dozen pumping motions before his insides contracted and he curled up, moaning out loud. Sherlock's climax hit him like an electric shock, setting his nerve endings aflame; his brain simply switched off, leaving blessed silence behind. He collapsed onto his back, breathing hard.

Sherlock's orgasm had set off a chain reaction. The muscles contracting around Victor's cock and the relentless stimulation of his prostate swept him off his mental feet, sending small shockwaves down his spine with tendrils zinging all the way out to his fingertips. Simultaneously, he felt Ryan pulsing inside him as he pushed in hard and came.

Panting and trembling, Victor leaned on the mattress and slid down onto the sheet next to Sherlock, exhausted, so as not to burden him with his entire weight. He vaguely registered Ryan eventually pulling out of him. His body was smarting and humming at the same time with a ridiculous combination of pleasure and pain. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe calmly.

"You'd better leave now," Sherlock told Ryan. Victor struggled onto his side and bit down on his teeth in pain. Sherlock had scooted down to the bottom of the mattress and was looking up at Ryan, who was standing somewhat awkwardly next to the bed. "Now!"

"Now hold on a minute, buddy. It's not like he didn't want it!" Ryan defended himself.

"I'm not going to repeat myself. One more word from you and I'll be having a word with Mrs Walters. I'm sure she's dying to hear how much her husband likes sucking cock. The university probably wouldn't be terribly interested in that kind of scandal either."

Ryan turned away, ashen, and went over to the couch, where he stripped away the condom and picked up his clothes to get dressed. "No one's ever been fired for an affair. Your threat is completely unsubstantiated."

"Maybe not fired, but dear Mrs Walters seems to be interested in a rather promising political career in Louisiana. I wonder whether a conservative parish will have anything to say about her husband's homosexual adventures?" Sherlock asked archly.

Ryan froze in place. He looked frantically back and forth between Sherlock and Victor, hoping to find some sign that Sherlock was joking. But no, in spite of all his precautions, in spite of all the times he'd deprived himself ... how had Sherlock been able to find out...?

Without getting involved in any further discussion of the topic, Ryan slipped into his blazer and headed for the door. Once there, he looked back again, pressing his lips into a thin lin.

"I didn't want this," he said and made eye contact with Victor. He opened his mouth to say something else, to specify what he meant exactly. That he hadn't wanted to hurt Victor? That he hadn't wanted this encounter? That he hadn't wanted to give in to the wicked impulses inside him? Instead, he closed his mouth again, shook his head once, and left.

As soon as the door fell shut, Sherlock leapt up and went over to turn the key in the lock. Then he went into the adjoining bathroom, filled the hotel tumbler by the sink with water, and brought it to Victor.

"Here, drink something..."

Victor leaned back against the headboard, accepted the glass gratefully, and took a couple of sips as Sherlock circled around the bed to sit next to him. He examined Victor's face closely.

"Sorry..."

"Hm?"

"That I didn't notice earlier. I... don't know... I couldn't think clearly," Sherlock said, a touch of pink colouring his high cheekbones. "Feeling you... inside me... was so..." He shook his head wearily. "I didn't realise he was hurting you. I should have called a halt to everything right away."

"No, Sherlock... it was my decision. I didn't want him to... for him to be the first one you had sex with. Even though that was the original plan. You should experience that with someone who... cares about you," Victor said, staring at the glass in his hand. Had he said too much?

"Oh," Sherlock said and pulled up his knees to wrap his arms around them. "I... so... technically, that … wasn't my first time."

Victor gave Sherlock an utterly dumbfounded look. "You've had sex before? You've had sex but never been kissed? Really?"

Sherlock nodded somewhat sheepishly. He hadn't wanted to talk about this, but the way things stood... "It was last summer... shortly before we left school. A fellow from my year... I don't even know that I particularly liked him. He wanted to have sex and I was curious. But I wasn't allowed to kiss him. The whole thing was rather messy and unpleasant. He'd scarcely got inside me before it was all over and I had no idea if it was always like that. Whether that's all there was. I decided that sex simply wasn't for me," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Until I met you."

Victor set the tumbler down on the nightstand and put his arm around Sherlock so he could pull him closer and bury his nose in Sherlock's tousled hair. An ironic smile snuck onto his face, and he shook his head.

"It can only get better..." Victor declared, brushing a kiss onto Sherlock's temple. "Come here." Victor arranged Sherlock so that he was between Victor's legs, leaning back against him. He spread the comforter out over both of them and enclosed Sherlock in both arms, covering his shoulders with feather-light kisses.

"Should we stay here tonight?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded once. "Yes."

 

+++

tbc


	20. February 1995, III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

When Victor woke up the next morning, he was alone in bed. It took him a moment to orient himself, but then he remembered the previous night right away. Valentine's Day, the encounter with Ryan Walters and Sherlock right here in this hotel, and a... oh, right... The aches and dull pains in his body generated a series of mixed feelings. He turned onto his side, buried his face in the crook of his elbow, and snorted unhappily.

_I'm such an idiot..._

The whole affair had taken a much different turn than Victor had expected. What would happen now that Ryan was obviously out of the running? Were he and Sherlock together? A couple?

_I want you... I wanted you from the very start._

Sherlock's words echoed in Victor's mind. Was it true? Was it really true that they could have spared themselves all the drama?

The door to the attached bathroom opened, and Sherlock came out, ensconced in a fluffy dressing-gown. He combed his fingers through his wet hair, looked over at Victor, and smiled. Victor felt as if his heart had stopped beating for a few seconds. Heat spread out from his stomach, flooding his veins and tingling pleasantly in his limbs. He brushed some long strands of hair out of his face with a fleeting gesture, then held out his hand to Sherlock to prompt him to come closer.

Sherlock approached the bed obediently and let himself be pulled down onto the mattress on Victor's side. His body was a welcome weight pressing against Victor's chest. Terry-cloth under his fingers, damp where it had absorbed the water clinging to Sherlock's body. The scent of hotel soap combined with Sherlock's own personal smell. Victor wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and rubbed his back casually. Their eyes met. Quicksilver-blue. Fingers in wet hair, tracing the path of the drops down the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Good morning," Sherlock said after some moments of silence, never taking his eyes off of Victor.

"Morning... sleep well?"

Sherlock nodded and propped himself up on one arm, examining Victor's face pensively. "And you?  How are you... after last night?"

Victor shrugged. "I'm all right. No need to worry."

The fact that Sherlock gnawed uncertainly on his bottom lip must have meant that he didn't quite believe the statement. "You're lying," Sherlock declared firmly after a while. His bullheadedness was written all over his face.

"Sherlock, really... I'm fine. In hindsight, I'd probably have done things differently, but..." Victor shook his head lightly, trying to find the right words. "I agreed to it." _And didn't want him to touch you,_ Victor completed the thought in his head. "I could have put a stop to everything at any time," he asserted, more to himself, asking himself at the same time whether Sherlock were truly able to see past his facade.

_What would Sherlock have done if I'd stopped it? If I'd left? Would he have come with me? Would he have stayed? Could I have convinced him not to stay?_

Sherlock looked to one side and huffed. "Never do anything like that again," he insisted, then looked back at Victor as if waiting for a confirmation.

Victor nodded once. "All right." He rubbed Sherlock's back again, enjoying the casual intimacy. Sherlock rested his head on Victor's shoulder, lazily traced his collarbone, and let his eyes wander around the room. Each man silently pursued his own train of thought, listening to the quiet sounds in the room. Breathing. Skin on cloth. The muted cacophony of the street.

"I want to do it again," Sherlock stated vaguely.

Victor, who had been about to fall asleep again, made an inquisitive sound.

"Sex. With you. Just with you, I mean," Sherlock explained without changing his position.

A smirk appeared on Victor's lips. "If you haven't had enough of me yet..." Victor replied, leaving the rest of the sentence dangling. He raked his spread fingers through Sherlock's damp hair, felt him shake his head, and smiled. Whatever this was... it was good. Promising.

When Sherlock looked up and stretched his neck, Victor met him halfway. Their lips touched gently. Sherlock searched Victor's face, his eyebrows drawn together.

"You should clean your teeth..." he complained and sat up.

"I'm sure you're right," Victor said, laughing, and manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, flipped the comforter back, and swung his legs out of bed. "What time is it anyway?"

"About half nine."

"Oh, then I'd better hurry... we need to be out of here by ten." Without wasting any more time, Victor headed for the bathroom. "Do you have lectures today?" he asked as he went.

"Yes... I do, in fact," Sherlock answered, and watched him disappear.

After Victor had cleaned his teeth and had a quick shower, he slipped into his clothes from the day before. Sherlock was already dressed and waiting impatiently. Together, they left the hotel.

"When will I see you again?" Victor asked when Sherlock stopped his car in front of the flat.

"Soon?" Sherlock answered hopefully and clutched the steering wheel harder, his eyes fixed on Victor.

"You can come over to mine anytime..." Victor said and put a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him in for a kiss. "Anytime, you hear?" he extended the invitation in a gruff voice.

"All right," Sherlock said.

"Okay... then off with you to your lecture..." Victor pressed his lips to Sherlock's once more, then got out, closed the door, and watched the car as it drove away toward the university.

 

******

 

"Vic, can you help me a sec?" Abigail's voice sounded from the living room.

Victor set his cup down grumpily, gave the big pot on the cooker another stir, and went over to her through the passage between the rooms. Together, they turned the coffee table ninety degrees and set it down next to the couch.

"It's better this way. More room for everyone," his flatmate announced and clapped her hands. Grinning broadly, she went back into the kitchen to work on dinner some more. She put on a pair of oven mitts and took a baking sheet with a batch of cupcakes out of the oven. There were more already cooling on the kitchen table.

"The chilli still needs a while. Will you decorate the cupcakes with me?" Abigail asked, holding a piping bag under Victor's nose.

Victor raised one eyebrow dubiously, but eventually nodded. "I hope you don't set much store in getting an artistic masterpiece..." Victor muttered and sat down at the table, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a teacup in one hand.

Abigail slid the bowl with the blue sugar icing over to him. After she'd filled the first piping bag, she dropped the spoon into the bowl with a challenging grin. "You still haven't heard from him, have you?" she asked and started decorating the first cupcake with blue dots.

Victor grumbled softly. Four days had passed now, and he hadn't heard anything from Sherlock. He was most likely studying for his tests, Abigail kept telling him, but Victor's only comment on such statements was an indistinct grunt followed by the lighting of another cigarette.

It had only been four days, he told himself. Four bloody days. Abigail was probably right: Sherlock was studying for all the many tests he'd set himself up for. There was no reason to think that Sherlock had changed his mind. That he didn't want to see Victor anymore. If that were the case, he could have said something at least, given some sort of hint. Anything.

"I heard from Tom, by the way," Abigail said, and Victor looked up from his task. His icing dots didn't look nearly as pretty as Abigail's. He tried it with spirals.

"Apparently he's going to have to repeat first semester chemistry. And two other classes as well. I don't remember which. At any rate, looks like Sherlock left him high and dry with the lab project."

Victor looked at her in surprise and reached for his cigarette so he could get the ashes into the ashtray before they fell onto the pastries.

"No idea whether it's true, but I heard that Sherlock already had the project finished in the second week. After that, he was just using the lab for other experiments. Tom kept thinking he was going to get the results from Sherlock. You can imagine the look on his face when he found out Sherlock had turned his papers in to the prof a long time ago. Do you think he did it on purpose?" Abigail asked and picked up the next cupcake, turning it in her hand as she examined it.

"How should I know?" Victor answered with a shrug.

Abigail mimicked his gesture and sucked her lower lip in between her teeth, swallowing down the comment that lay on the tip of her tongue. "Sure, Tom shouldn't have agreed to take Sherlock's results, but… I wouldn't have thought Sherlock was like that."

Victor stubbed his cigarette out and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling, then took a sip of his tea. "He's a loner..." he murmured and started to refill the piping bag. "He probably forgot it was supposed to be a group project." He ignored Abigail's suspicious look.

Changing the topic, they continued to decorate the cupcakes and keep an eye on the chilli. Marcus dropped by a little while later with some crates of drinks, which he left in the kitchen. Some of the bottles were eventually moved into the refrigerator.

The preparations were barely completed when the first guests arrived and the music started. Abigail took over the duty of greeting the arrivals, while Victor finished spreading the rest of the icing and provided paper cups to the first few people who wandered into the kitchen.

Victor was only familiar with many of Abigail's classmates by sight, so there were quite a few new people he had to meet. He welcomed the distraction. He wasn't comfortable with the uncertainty and wallowing over Sherlock. Thinking so much about a guy, wondering whether there were something more between them... those weren't the kinds of thing he had control over.

Victor went into the living room with a bottle of beer and joined Abigail, who had one arm wrapped around Marcus's hip while she talked to two of her classmates. Victor only listened with one ear – it was something about a literature class – and exchanged a few words with Marcus until the doorbell rang.

"That'll be another one for you," Marcus said to Abigail, peeling himself out of the half-embrace so he could go to the door. He returned a few moments later, smiling in Victor's direction.

"No, it's for you," he said with a meaningful wink.

Victor looked past him and discovered Sherlock standing somewhat uncertainly in the doorway between the hall and the living room, looking around. When he spotted Abigail, he made a beeline for her and handed her a small package.

"Happy birthday," he announced stiffly, then pressed his lips together into a thin line.

Abigail was suddenly all smiles and threw her arms around Sherlock's neck with a squeal. "Thank you! That's _so_ sweet of you. Nice that you could make it after all."

Victor grinned and took a sip of his beer when he saw the look of panic reflected on Sherlock's face when Abigail deposit a kiss on his cheek. A simple gesture with his bottle sufficed to let Sherlock know there was something to drink waiting for him in the kitchen. Nodding gratefully, Sherlock separated himself from the hostess and followed Victor.

Two other guests were standing in front of the cooker, scooping chilli onto their plates as they excitedly discussed some novel or other that Victor didn't know. He greeted them in passing, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of beer, which he then handed off to Sherlock. He watched silently as Sherlock took a sip.

He was here. Today, of all days. Right when they had the flat full of people. Was it intentional? Did he want to keep Victor at a distance? That wasn't exactly going to stop him... Victor grinned to himself, lifted an eyebrow mischievously, and gave Sherlock a pointed look as if he were expecting some answers to questions he hadn't said out loud. However, Sherlock didn't respond to the challenge.

"Hungry?" Victor asked instead.

Sherlock turned to face Victor head on. The blue of his eyes shimmered with reflections. His bottle hovered right in front of his mouth, as if he were trying to identify the various flavour nuances of the drink by smell, like with a fine wine. The look in Sherlock's eye made a hot-and-cold shiver run down Victor's back.

"How's the prep work for your exams coming along?" Victor tried again in an attempt to draw this reticent Sherlock out of his reserve.

"Slower than expected," Sherlock replied, his gaze still fixed on Victor. "I get distracted a lot." He looked to the side after a while and took a sip of his beer.

People were coming and going in and out of the kitchen, helping themselves to the food and drinks, chatting. Sherlock automatically took a step back when Victor moved toward him and put one hand onto the cupboard behind him to lean on. Only a few centimetres separated them.

"What distracts you then?" Victor asked with a knowing smile on his lips. He watched in amusement as Sherlock's eyes darted nervously back and forth between his, wandering down to his mouth and neck, to his hands, and back to his face. The way he started to breathe faster and his fingers shakily wiped at the condensation on the rim of his bottle.

Victor leaned forward until his mouth hovered right next to Sherlock's ear. Close enough to have an overly keen awareness of his presence; not quite close enough to touch. "Why are you here, Sherlock?" he murmured in a low voice.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock jerked hard when Abigail stormed into the kitchen, beaming with joy, and threw her arms around his neck again to pull him close. In doing so, she inadvertently increased the distance between the two men.

"My God, how did you know I love Dickens? Oliver Twist is one of my favourite books! Wherever did you get such a beautiful edition?" she asked, clasping the book bound in green leather with silver letters to her chest with her other hand.

"I..." Sherlock stammered awkwardly. "I saw that you had a Dickens pin on your jacket. As for Oliver Twist... I thought that sort of story would suit you... I took a guess..."

"You are the absolute best!" Abigail squealed gleefully and dragged Sherlock after her by the wrist.

Sherlock looked at Victor, nonplussed, but only received an apologetic shrug. It was Abigail's party, and if she wanted to commandeer Sherlock, there was very little Victor could do. At least for the time being. He sighed and took a cola out of the refrigerator, got the bottle opener from one of the other guests, and opened the lid. Bubbly sweetness spread across his tongue.

He watched for a while as Abigail tried to get Sherlock to dance, the way she kept pulling him back in whenever he tried to pull away. She liked Sherlock, that much was obvious. He had become part of her circle of friends, part of her little family, and it was important to her that she let him know.

Victor let his gaze wander over Sherlock's awkward figure. He usually made such an unapproachable, supercilious impression, as if no one could touch him, as if he stood above everyone and everything else. In reality, though, there was so much insecurity under that stiff exterior, so much curiosity paired with a sense of adventure... a rebel who was resisting the strictures of family and society but didn't know exactly what he hoped to achieve through his protests. Someone who tended not to fit in, and ended up pushing everyone away in his desperate attempts at holding on. A study in contradictions. Looking for his place in the world.

Victor looked over at Sherlock again; he was now more or less enthusiastically dancing with Abigail. When Sherlock glanced up, their eyes met, and Victor tilted his head in invitation as he pushed away from the door jamb and set his bottle down on the kitchen table. Without checking to see if Sherlock was following, Victor went through the other passage to the hall and headed toward his room. There, he leaned back against the closed door, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.

There were several guests in the hall as well, talking animatedly, giggling, laughing, drinking or eating something. It took a couple of minutes before Sherlock had finally extricated himself from Abigail and escaped from the overfilled living room. Once he was standing in front of Victor, he expelled the air out of his lungs, obviously stressed, and rolled his eyes to make it clear what he thought of all the hustle and bustle.

"Quite a lot going on here tonight, hm?"

"Yes... I hadn't expected this..." Sherlock replied. It was quieter in the hall than in the living room, enabling them to talk without shouting at each other.

"Shall we go into my room?" Victor asked, nodding at the door. A smile played at the corners of his mouth when he saw the way Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded slowly. Victor pushed the handle down, opened the door, and waved toward the interior with one hand, then followed Sherlock once he'd gone past. He didn't miss the curious glances from some of the people standing in the hall, but just grinned impishly. After all, he didn't intend to open up his room as an additional party annex. He turned the key in the lock with a loud click.

 

+++

tbc

 

 


	21. Saturday, 15.12.2012 (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest gratitude for the translation goes to the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss)! <3

John was more nervous than he'd been in quite a long time. His hands were ice-cold and sweaty while his heart was pounding hard in his chest, shooting adrenaline through his veins. It was cooler in Brighton than in London. John drew in a deep breath of fresh air and thought he could smell a hint of salt, even though the sea was several kilometres away.

John was still mulling over the story Victor had told him on the train. The journey had been too short to go into any of the various details from Victor and Sherlock's past, so John had restricted himself to the role of the listener, not contributing more than a sound of affirmation now and then. Maybe he'd get a chance to say something on the way back, if his mind had calmed down by then.

A hefty clap on his shoulder almost knocked John off-balance. Victor gave him a sidelong grin and motioned with his head toward the house. Mr and Mrs Holmes's two-storey home was painted coral red, while the window and door-frames had been kept a simple white. The natural wood of the front door created a pleasant contrast along with the dark green of the many plants in the front garden.

Tamping down stirrings of panic, John extended his arm and pushed the doorbell, only to immediately take a step back and wipe his hands dry on his trousers. It didn't take more than a few seconds until they heard the sound of heels on a hardwood floor. The door opened and a plump woman with alert, blue eyes peeked her head out, her white hair piled up into a bun.

"Yes?" Her eyes widened. "Oh..."

"Hallo, Mrs Holmes. I apologise for dropping by unannounced, but we happened to be in the area and wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to pay you a visit and express our condolences," Victor said, putting on his most winning smile. "I don't know if you remember me..."

"Victor Trevor, of course I remember you. And you must be Dr Watson?" Mrs Holmes asked, more pleasure than surprise in her pale eyes. "Please, do come in!"

John immediately noticed the similarity to Sherlock in her eyes. He nodded once, returned the greeting, and entered the Holmes's house. His bewilderment was written all over his face. Not just that Mrs Holmes looked completely different than he'd expected with her loose, colourful blouse and eye-catching costume jewellery; the interior design also had nothing whatsoever in common with what he'd imagined.

They were directed into a small, cosy living room with green walls, on which a wide variety of artwork was displayed. A beige-coloured loveseat and a dark blue armchair stood on either side of a low coffee table, on which an empty cup stood. Next to it a thick, yellow-bound book. A fire was burning in the hearth on the opposite wall. Books and all sorts of bric-a-brac were stuffed into two bookshelves flanking the chimney. Overall, the room was more reminiscent of a tidied-up version of the Baker Street flat than the sterile, awe-inspiring domicile filled with marble and antiques that John had imagined.

"Please, have a seat. I'll make us some tea," Mrs Holmes trilled and gestured at the love seat as she walked past, heading for the door to the right of the fireplace. "Darling! We have company!" she cried loudly, and John couldn't suppress the incredulous grin any longer which tugged stubbornly at the corners of his mouth. He glanced up at Victor sceptically, who gave him a roguish wink.

"I told you it'd be worth it. She's completely different than you thought, isn't she?"

"You can say that again," John confessed. "She's so... normal? I mean, if you look at Sherlock and Mycroft, you'd never expect … someone like this!" John shook his head, still bemused.

"Meredith? Oh, good day, gentlemen." An older man came out of the room to the left of the fireplace, blinking with some surprise at them. He was wearing a checked shirt and a dark blue cardigan. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses hung around his neck. "My wife didn't tell me we were expecting guests..." His voice was relaxed and inviting, as if he were pleased at the unexpected turn the day had taken.

Victor stood up and extended his hand. "It's nice to see you again, Mr Holmes. Victor Trevor; I was at university with Sherlock."

"Oh, of course. Yes, I remember you," Mr Holmes replied and shook his hand. "And you are?" he asked, turning to John.

John stood up too and was just about to introduce himself when Mrs Holmes returned, balancing a tray with a tea set and biscuits. "That's John Watson, darling, the doctor!" She indicated to John and Victor with a casual wave that they should sit down again while she poured the tea and passed around the cups. Then she drew up an upholstered cube that probably usually served as a footrest and sat on it. When her husband reached for the plate of biscuits, she rapped him on the fingers and glared at him disapprovingly. "Those are for the boys. And you need to watch your cholesterol anyway!"

John quickly lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip of the tea, even though it was much too hot, in order to suppress a laugh. These two were the polar opposite of their two sons. What in the world had got into Sherlock and Mycroft for them to turn out the way they had?

There was no denying that the two were Sherlock's parents, though. Sherlock had clearly inherited his high cheekbones and Cupid's bow lips from his father, while his alert gaze and impulsivity seemed to come more from his mother.

"You probably want to know why we didn't attend the funeral," Mrs Holmes said after a few moments.

"No. Well... that too. But... " John nibbled nervously on his bottom lip. He had no idea whether Sherlock had ever spoken of their relationship with his parents. For that reason, he wasn't sure how to start the conversation without revealing things that might be unpleasant to them. After all, John knew all too well from his own family that homosexuality wasn't exactly a popular topic amongst the older generation, and as friendly and open as these two seemed to be, any hints in that direction might have unpleasant consequences.

His parents might not even know how far the friendship between Sherlock and Victor had gone at university. For that reason, John looked over at Victor for help, inwardly cursing the fact that he'd learned so little about Sherlock during the two years he'd lived with him. Why had he never asked what had gone wrong between him and his parents? And whether it had had anything to do with his sexual orientation?

"The real reason for our visit is that we... well, John and I have talked a lot about Sherlock, but of course that only goes so far and it's all rather subjective. There are a lot of things we don't know at all, or only a little – such as what Sherlock was like as a child, for example. So we'd really like it if you could tell us something about him."

"Well," Mrs Holmes began, raising one eyebrow dubiously. "My dear Victor, you know more than enough about my son's past. Don't think I've forgot about the drugs, or the fact that you went back to him even though you knew what the consequences would be."

John's eyes snapped to Victor in surprise; he sat unwavering in the face of Mrs Holmes' glare, his jaw clenched. John knew that Victor had had something to do with Sherlock's history with narcotics, but apparently there were still some things in the past that he had no idea about.

"Mrs Holmes... I know it's not an excuse, but Sherlock would have discovered drugs with or without me sooner or later. He was always looking for things that gave him that special kick. Not just with drugs, but in all areas of his life. I didn't seduce him into anything. I was just there with him and took care of him as much as I could without forbidding anything, which he would have just done in secret anyway without any backup," Victor countered calmly.

But John couldn't help noticing Victor's hand on the couch next to him curling into a fist, practically trembling with anger. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea after all for them to come here. There were obviously still unresolved differences between the two fronts which John hadn't wanted to stir up. He cleared his throat discreetly and tried to draw the attention to himself instead.

"Do you have a photo album or something? I'd like to see some pictures from Sherlock's childhood."

As soon as the words were spoken, Mrs Holmes' expression changed and became soft and friendly like before. "Of course, Dr Watson, just a moment. And if Dad starts humming, just give him a nudge, that should work." To Mr Holmes, she said: "The albums are up in the office, aren't they? And don't you hum..."

The old man nodded mutely. As soon as his wife had left the room, he leaned forward and took a biscuit, shoved the entire thing into his mouth, and chewed it happily. "She's so scatter-brained, my wife is, but she also happens to be a genius. I can never hold my own with her. I'm rather simple-minded, myself. But she's also... incredibly hot," he said, giving the two men a meaningful look.

John chuckled somewhat helplessly, not sure what to do with that information. His eye fell on the book on the table. It was lying face-down, so he couldn't see the title, but it looked familiar. The cover was yellow and frayed in a few places around the edges. The back cover depicted a parchment scroll with a short summary of the contents. He reached for the volume and turned it over.

 _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ stood on the yellow cover in fancy cursive lettering. John's breath caught. He felt his heartbeat vibrating dully against his eardrums. All other sounds faded into the background. Words whose meaning he couldn't understand dissolved in the intermediary space, reformed, and became louder and louder until they beat against every surface of his body in time with his pulse:

_Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty._

_I'm so changeable!_

"John?"

It was the same book. It was definitely the same book that had been found in Greg's and Mrs Hudson's flats following their abductions. The book that James Moriarty had sent them along with the riddles, along with the threat to end the lives of Sherlock's handful of friends.

"John?"

John startled when a hand touched his arm and squeezed it gently. Disturbed, he looked up at Victor, who was watching him with confusion. Mr and Mrs Holmes also appeared worried and somewhat ill-at-ease. The latter was holding a photo album in her hands. John hadn't even heard her come back.

Did Sherlock's parents suspect anything of what was going on inside John? Where did they have this book from? Why this particular book from the Brothers Grimm, when there must have been dozens of versions of their work? Had Sherlock left it to them? Or had Mycroft brought it? Who else knew about the connection to Moriarty?

"Oh, erm... sorry. Got lost in my head for a sec there," John hurried to explain and placed the book back on the table. He struggled to put a smile on his face and took the album which was being handed to him.

Mrs Holmes refilled their tea and sat back down on the upholstered cube.

"Everything all right?" Victor asked under his breath.

John just nodded curtly and opened the album. His heart was still racing. He took a deep breath, closed the cover of the album again, and let it rest in his lap. "It... I... could you tell me where you got that book of fairy tales?" John's gaze was focused on Mrs Holmes, who seemed to him to be the appropriate person to address in this matter.

"What, that old thing?" she asked without batting an eyelash. "We've had that forever. It was for the kids, but Sherlock was the only one who was read to regularly from it. He could spend hours with it."

John couldn't help but notice the passive structure of the statement. Was there a reason that she was avoiding saying she was the one who had read to him? Or was he reading too much into it?

"Why... is it lying here?"

"I'm expecting a visit from our neighbour. She has a five-year-old daughter and I wanted to give the book to her. Fairy tales are such an enrichment for children, don't you think?" Mrs Holmes asked with a smile and took a sip of her tea.

"Could be," John answered evasively. He was going to have to consider the question seriously later on. After everything that had happened, he secretly wondered whether it was really possible to say that fairy tales had an educational value.

John picked up the photo album again and opened it. _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ was handwritten on the first page in a beautiful cursive script.

Of course they chose the most unusual one of the names to call him by!

Sherlock's parents had clearly created a separate album for each of their children. The photographs that followed showed Sherlock as a baby at the hospital, in his cot, on a blanket on the floor. The newborn blue of his eyes was darker than the kaleidoscope of grey-blue-green that John was used to.

A smile appeared on his lips as he looked through all of the numerous snapshots showing Sherlock as a little boy. In one picture, he was running after someone who had already made it out of the camera frame. But the camera seemed to have been focused on Sherlock anyway. Here and there, glimpses of Mycroft or other children were visible, but never in their entirety.

"Have you also got an album for Mycroft?" John asked, giving Mrs Holmes an inquisitive look.

"Naturally, but I assumed you were mainly interested in Sherlock's pictures..."

"I only wondered as there aren't any pictures with both brothers."

"There are some further on," she said softly and drank some more tea.

The tissue paper between the pages rustled as John turned the page. A picture of Sherlock was revealed, beaming and with tousled curls, promptly making tears shoot into John's eyes. He quickly blinked them away so that he could get a better look at the photo. It had been taken of Sherlock in the middle of an enthusiastic jump. Both arms in the air, his white t-shirt with blue sleeves shifted so that his round, white belly was visible. A plaster on his skinned knee. And at his feet, ready to leap, a puppy with reddish-brown fur and a wagging tail.

"Redbeard..." John whispered, letting his fingers brush the image with tenderness. Beside him, Victor smirked and gave John a gentle nudge with his elbow to let him know he wasn't alone. "How old was he here?" John asked Sherlock's parents, holding the album up so they could see.

"He was five there. It was in the summer he started to talk..." Mrs Holmes replied.

"Hold on, what?!" John and Victor asked at the same time.

Mrs Holmes tittered somewhat abashedly while her husband was so quiet and withdrawn that he appeared to be receding into the blue armchair.

"Yes, it's true. Sherlock didn't say a single word until the summer of his fifth birthday. We were very worried that it might have had something to do with my age during the pregnancy. I was already over forty, so there was an increased risk, as I'm sure you're aware, Dr Watson. However, the doctors couldn't find anything to confirm that. His vocal cords had developed normally, and he reacted perfectly well to sounds, so they were able to eliminate a disability. They ran a whole gamut of psychological tests, but he also achieved excellent results there with the exception of the fact that he didn't say a single word.

"It was looking more and more like complete mutism, but there was no discernible reason for it. Sherlock was well cared for our family, he was loved and watched after by everyone, encouraged and provided with support... We were completely mystified. I quit my job in order to be with him. We decided not to send him away for school and enrolled him in a local school here, which was informed of the situation beforehand."

"Oh, he told me something different back then... he said he'd gone to the same school as everyone else in his family," Victor said, frowning doubtfully.

"He did, but that wasn't until a few years later. As I said, the mutism disappeared when Sherlock got the dog. He began speaking in full sentences from one day to the next. To be frank, there was no stopping him. As if he were trying to make up for lost time. He continued at school here for a couple of years so that I could keep an eye on him. After Redbeard died, though, Sherlock wanted to transfer to boarding school. He was ten, and it was very difficult for him to integrate in the new class. That remained the case all through school and carried over to university as well. And that's where he met..." Mrs Holmes inclined her head in Victor's direction, but he didn't respond to the prompt.

"How did Redbeard die? Five years seems unusually young for an Irish Setter," John said, looking through the rest of the pages in the album which showed more happy times with Sherlock and his dog.

Mrs Holmes sighed deeply at the memory. "That was a very unhappy story. He was poisoned. Some boy thought it would be fun to kill a few of the pets in the area. He clubbed some of them, poisoned or drowned others. Of course he denied everything when he was caught. But the evidence was incontrovertible. Redbeard didn't die right away, but the vet wasn't able to do anything for him. The poison had already done too much damage to his organs, and we decided to have the poor thing put to sleep."

"That must have been difficult for Sherlock..." John said, turning more pages. There were no more pictures with Redbeard. Instead, there were lots of individual portraits of Sherlock during his school years. There was rarely anything like a smile on any of the pictures, and when there was, it was more like a distortion at the corners of his mouth. No happiness was visible in the silver-blue eyes.

"I was afraid he'd seek an escape in mutism again, but fortunately that didn't happen. In the end, there was no reason not to fulfil his wish and let him go away for school. He was very focused on his education, caught on up on everything they hadn't been able to offer him here, and was top of his class in no time." The pride in his mother's voice was evident. "I'll make us some more tea," she said and stood up, picked up the tray, and left the room.

Mr Holmes had been listening to her with the same intense concentration as the two guests. Now that she'd left the room, however, he appeared somewhat lost in his blue armchair.

John leafed further through the album and found a page with three pictures of Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock was around fourteen, wearing a school uniform with the tie undone. He obviously hadn't cared for them even then. His face was stiff and empty of any emotion. Mycroft, who must have been attending university by that time, stood beside his little brother in a suit, not looking much different than he did in the present day. The only difference was that his hair was more voluminous and his face was smoother; the cool, distanced expression, though, was the one John recognised as that of the politician.

The next page was empty. There were photo corners stuck to the paper, though, so there must have been a picture there once. Confused, John turned the page back and looked down at the floor to make sure the photo hadn't accidentally fallen out. Finally, he addressed Mr Holmes:

"Sir, I think one of the pictures has slipped out of place," John said, lifting the album up in order to show him the empty page as an explanation. Mr Holmes shook his head and eyed the biscuit plate again, which stood enticingly on the table. John looked over at Victor, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to turning the album pages. In fact, there were more and more pictures missing, as if they'd been deliberately removed.

When Mrs Holmes returned to the living room with freshly brewed tea and refilled their cups, Victor sat up straight and gave her a disparaging look. "Several pictures are missing."

"Well, that's what happens when they're taken out," Mrs Holmes retorted archly and sat down again.

"I notice you haven't mentioned him even once today. What did you do with all the pictures?"

A jolt went through the group when Mr Holmes suddenly leapt to his feet and stood in the middle of the room with his fists clenched. He was staring at the table as if it had insulted him with its mere existence. Then he abruptly turned around and left the room, stomped down the hall, and slammed the front door a short while later.

Mrs Holmes weathered her husband's implosion without so much as batting an eye.

"Who... were you referring to?" John asked hesitantly, feeling as if he were poking a hornet's nest with a stick.

"Sherlock's big brother," Victor answered, regarding John speculatively.

"Mycroft?"

"No... the other one."

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You often find the name Violet associated with Mummy Holmes, but I've never understood where that came from. After all, it says M. L. Holmes on the book she wrote (which you can see in episode 3x3). That's the reason I decided to call her Meredith. :)


	22. Saturday, 15.12.2012 (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay this week! I moved to another apartment and still don't have internet in the new one. That's why I'm posting the chapter from work today... pssssst! ^^'  
> Next week I should be linked to the world wide web again :D
> 
> +++
> 
> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

_No... the other one._

The words echoed in John's ears, but still didn't make any sense. Other brother? There was no other brother. Mycroft was Sherlock's brother. Seven years older. A public servant with more influence than was good for anyone. The British government. Smooth and cool as an ice sculpture. More machine than human. And yet John had borne witness to a few fleeting moments when Sherlock had drawn him out of his reserve, torn off his mask of unapproachability, and shown that there was humanity behind Mycroft's facade.

Another brother had never been spoken of. Not once in two years.

Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever mentioned there was anyone else. So...

"What... about him?"

Mrs Holmes sat stock still on the upholstered cube, staring down at her hands folded in her lap. Her blue eyes, which were so reminiscent of both of her sons', remained motionless in her ashen face.

Beside John, Victor sighed, exhaling the air from his lungs in a long, heavy breath before he looked up. "He's dead."

John swallowed audibly. The death of Sherlock's brother must have hit the family hard. Still, John was completely baffled at the efforts to virtually erase him from the memory of those he'd left behind.

"What happened?" John asked so softly it was barely audible – as if he were trying not to open any old wounds with careless words.

Victor's and Mrs Holmes's eyes met over the coffee table; searching; calculating. Without looking away, Victor continued:

"It was about six years ago, if I recall correctly." The statement sounded more like a question, but Mrs Holmes didn't react to it. "Sherlock told me at the time that his brother died in an accident. He said he wasn't close to him, but the death affected Sherlock deeply. I spent a couple of days in London to be with him. It was... difficult." At the end, Victor turned back to John and gave him a sad smile.

John nodded numbly. "I'm very sorry, Mrs Holmes. That must..." He took a deep breath. The woman had probably heard enough words of condolence for the rest of her life now that she'd lost two of her three children. "What... was his name?"

"Sherrinford," Mrs Holmes said calmly. Her clear blue eyes honed in on John as if he were a particularly interesting specimen that needed to be handled with care. Not because he appeared fragile but because she wasn't sure how to gauge whether he might be dangerous.

John frowned for a moment, nonplussed, but forcibly relaxed his expression a moment later and nodded his understanding. Of course their third son had also had an unusual name; it must have made his school years awful.

"He had a car accident. He died immediately. Sherlock had fallen out with him a few years earlier and must not have been able to handle not being able to hash out their differences anymore. He was always the most sensitive of the three..." she explained and reached for her teacup to take a sip.

"But why did you remove the pictures?" Victor pressed. A question that John was also eager to ask. He couldn't help but notice the brief flash in Mrs Holmes's eyes.

"It was and continues to be very painful for us to have lost our first-born. But I'd be happy to show you a picture of him if it means we can then put the topic to rest." The sharp tone of Mrs Holmes's words brooked no argument, and didn't really fit with her kindly demeanour. All of a sudden, her expression took on the appearance of a rather well calculated mask – like Mycroft's – concealing the many layers of her character.

She stood up and told John and Victor to follow her. Victor demurred. "I'll check on Mr Holmes..." he said and went in the direction in which Sherlock's father had disappeared earlier. Mrs Holmes raised her eyebrows disapprovingly, but turned toward the stairs leading to the upper storey. John followed her obediently.

With every step, he imagined Sherlock running up and down the same stairs over and over, romping and playing with his dog in this house – all with his mother's indignant voice in his ear.

He wondered what Sherlock and Sherrinford had rowed over, and whether their relationship had already been as cool as Sherlock and Mycroft's. What kind of person had Sherrinford been? Had he been as unapproachable and distant as Mycroft, or as moody and unpredictable as Sherlock? Or completely different?

The hall on the first floor was carpeted in blue. Four doors, two on either side, suggested four rooms, but John suspected that one of them must be a bath. He followed Mrs Holmes into the room at the end of the hall. It seemed to be the office from which she'd fetched the photo album before. To the right was a long desk that ran the entire length of the wall. It was piled with numerous books and loose papers next to the computer monitor; writing utensils lay strewn about haphazardly; and notes and post-its were stuck to every free centimetre.

There was a window across from the door, and next to that several bookshelves with binders and books. While Mrs Holmes took another album off one of the shelves and leafed through it, John let his eyes wander across the spines of the books. They were mostly mathematics texts, as far as he could judge.

"Here, this is a nice picture of him," she said and turned the album around. The head shot of Sherrinford looked like something for a job application. Even though the similarity to Mycroft and Sherlock was obvious, it was simply a picture of a man in a suit and tie with coiffed hair and a bland smile. His hair was perhaps a shade lighter than his younger brothers', his eyes a touch greyer. Sherrinford's cheekbones were just as pronounced as Sherlock's, but his jaw was more chiselled and stiffer.

"May I?" John asked and made as if to turn the next page. Mrs Holmes hesitated briefly, but then nodded. The next two pictures showed Mycroft and Sherrinford sitting beside each other on a couch and talking, apparently oblivious to the camera. Here too, Sherrinford seemed somewhat... John tried to find the right word. Separate? As if he'd been added to the picture some time later. Somehow strange and distanced. Not to his brother, but to the world in which he found himself.

In the second photo, Sherrinford was shown together with Sherlock. In contrast to the previous pictures, this one was unusually intimate. Sherrinford had his arm wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and was smiling at him. Sherlock, who couldn't have been older than sixteen, was smiling too, although a certain hint of sadness couldn't be overlooked.

 _Who knows_ , John thought, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, _he was probably trying to cheer Sherlock up..._ He always looked so sad in the other pictures...

"Thanks," John said softly and closed the album. He'd seen enough to get an impression of Sherrinford. It wasn't his intention to burden Mrs Holmes any longer with memories of her first-born child. She nodded curtly, put the album back, and left the room again.

Following some instinct, John paused in the hall. "Which one was Sherlock's room?" he asked, letting his eyes wander over the closed doors until he noticed the notches in the frame of the door to his left. "Oh," he whispered and leaned forward to examine the marks more closely. There were several horizontal cuts made in the wood, which had been painted over with white varnish.

"I'll bet this was his room, wasn't it?" John said and pointed at the door with a smile. It was just like Sherlock to want to document his growth in a place that was visible to everyone.

Mrs Holmes nodded. Her expression was wary.

"I'd like to see how he lived..."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," she said, shaking her head as if in slow motion. "We cleared out his things years ago. It's nothing more than a storage room now." She turned to the stairs and was about to go back down to the ground floor but paused when John didn't move.

John was listening to the dull thudding in his chest. Even if there wasn't any sign of Sherlock in the room anymore, he still would have liked to see it, if only to see how much room Sherlock's spirit had had to develop, or what it was like for him to look out the window. But he didn't want to cause Mrs Holmes any more grief. John's fingers touched the marks on the door frame, tracing the grooves. He laid one hand against the door and sighed.

"Are you coming?"

"Yes... I'm sorry." John let his hand fall and followed her down the stairs. He thanked her again for the chat and the photos before leaving the house.

Victor and Mr Holmes were standing outside – Victor facing the house, Mr Holmes with his back to it. When John came out, Victor shook Mr Holmes's hand and quietly said good-bye.

"Thank you for everything, sir. It was very nice of you to help us out," John said and shook his hand in farewell too.

Mr Holmes smiled sadly, nodded to him, and went back to his wife, who was waiting at the door.

 

******

 

"What were you talking to him about?" John asked once he and Victor had got into a taxi to drive to the train station.

"Nothing special... he wasn't very talkative. I apologised for everything. You know, that we stirred up things that apparently still affect him so deeply. I also tried to explain why we had to do it. But he didn't really seem to be listening. I'm sure his wife will be able to cheer him up... I hope."

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to drop in on Mr and Mrs Holmes unannounced as they had, but John didn't regret it.

"Did you ever meet Sherrinford?" John asked, looking at Victor as if eager to hear the answer.

"Yes, but just the once. Sherlock never talked much about him. I gathered that he worked abroad and didn't visit the family very often. I met him when I came back from the States to see Sherlock over Christmas. I must say I didn't like him very much. But the feeling was most likely mutual. Maybe it was Sherlock; he was being especially obnoxious at the time because I wanted to return to Harvard for another trimester and he held it against me. We were constantly at each other's throats." Victor sighed and turned his head away to look out the window.

"It went so far as me packing my bags and going back to Abby's for the rest of the holidays. She was at her parents' for the holidays, so I had the flat to myself. Three days later, Sherlock appeared at the door. He looked miserable. He asked to stay with me for a couple of days before I flew back to the States. Of course I agreed." Victor sighed again and rubbed his thighs nervously with his palms, as if he expected a negative reaction from John.

"That's when the drugs started. We went to a lot of parties – there's always a lot going on around the New Year – and he wanted to try something new. There was no stopping him. As soon as he figured out who was selling what where, he was willing to try out all sorts of things. I didn't try to stop him. How are you supposed to stop a hurricane?" Victor asked acerbically and shook his head with a resigned air.

"Instead, I tried to keep an eye on things, covered his back whenever he was buying something, and yeah, I had my hand in as well. No denying that. But I was always sure I had everything completely under control."

John snorted his disapproval. He'd seen enough people in his life who had fallen victim to the mistaken belief that they had their drug use under control. For someone to take drugs themselves and at the same time think they could keep an eye on someone else was fairly presumptuous.

The taxi stopped in front of the station. They paid and got out, then went to buy tickets for the return trip to London. The next train was leaving in an hour, so they decided to get something to eat first. They ordered greasy fish and chips at a stand, then stood there listlessly eating and washing it down with sweet fizzy drinks while they watched the comings and goings in the station.

Standing almost motionless and eating in the midst of a bustling mass of people was almost like being in a slower-moving parallel universe surrounded by a cocoon of colourful sounds. The clicking of heels on the smooth tile floor, the constant announcements that could only be understood with the utmost concentration, snatches of words in several languages.

"And then I returned to the States..." Victor finally said.

John waited a moment to see if Victor was going to continue. But he seemed to have finished his story and was focused on his potato wedges. John reviewed the last few facts and furrowed his brow. He could imagine only too well how Sherlock increasingly lost control over his drug use once Victor was no longer around.

But what should Victor have done? Sherlock had never let himself be controlled; he'd always had his way. Victor was probably right: any attempt to restrain Sherlock would only have blown up in someone else's face. With that in mind, Victor's final statement almost sounded like a challenge, daring John to place the blame at his feet. For that reason, rather than probing further into the sensitive topic and possibly tossing recriminations in Victor's direction, John decided to turn his focus to the meeting with Sherlock's parents.

"That book of fairy tales..." John started, registering with some satisfaction the look of surprise that appeared on Victor's face, as he hadn't anticipated the change of topic. "Did it seem familiar to you too?"

Victor shook his head. "I wanted to ask you anyway what that was all about..."

John huffed and pursed his lips, wiping his greasy fingers off on the paper serviette while he considered how to say what he was thinking without sounding like he was completely off his rocker.

"It's... probably completely mad, but.... When Greg and Mrs Hudson were abducted, there was a book found in both of their flats, and I'm pretty sure it was the same one. Pretty odd coincidence, wouldn't you say?" John asked tentatively.

"Hm... I don't know. There wasn't one at my place... Anyway, a book of fairy tales isn't unusual in a household with three children. Even if they moved out a long time ago. Parents do tend to keep their children's things..."

John made a sound of agreement. Of course Victor was right; still, it was strange that Sherlock's parents had kept that particular book and supposedly cleared everything else out of Sherlock's room. The fact that the same book hadn't been found in Victor's flat contradicted his theory, however.

"Probably..." John murmured, letting his eyes slide over the people rushing past without really seeing them.

The return trip was uneventful. Both men were so tired from the long excursion and the emotions that had been stirred up that they barely exchanged more than three words with each other. Victor nodded off at some point, and John mulled over his own thoughts. He couldn't manage to simply set aside all of the new insights he'd gained in order to give them more attention later.

It was strange that Sherlock had never told him about Sherrinford. Even if the two brothers hadn't been close, most people would normally have at least mentioned their siblings. But nothing of the sort had happened in the two years in which he and Sherlock had lived together. John was used to secret-keeping like that from Mycroft, but from Sherlock? Had he trusted John so little that he'd wanted to keep things about his life hidden right up to the end?

John sighed softly. Trust... there it was again, the same old touchy topic that had cropped up over and over again in the last few weeks they'd spent together. How many months, how many years would have had to pass before Sherlock had fully trusted him? Or would it never have happened?

The thought was so painful that John crossed his arms over his knees and rested his head on them. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw until he almost couldn't stand the pressure anymore, in order to keep the trembling in his body under control.

A warm hand touched his back, just at the bottom of his neck, and John gasped. He didn't dare to move, but he could tell by the way Victor's legs were angled that he had changed his position and was leaning forward. The hand didn't move; it simply lay there, warm and comforting, between John's shoulder blades.

They didn't say anything.

After what felt like an eternity, John sat up straight and leaned back. His back protested loudly, but he ignored the twinge. He took a deep breath, exhaled the air in a long breath, and finally looked at Victor.

He had his head resting against the glass and was watching John silently. His expression was soft and open; understanding and empathy in his blue eyes.

John broke the eye contact and looked out the window. Outside, the sun's last rays of the day were reflecting on the bottom of the clouds, while the skies became darker and darker.

 

+++

tbc

 


	23. 181 Days (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3
> 
> +++
> 
> This chapter got longer than originally planned (erm... as usual...), so I've split it into two parts. ;)

**46 days**

_Beep... beep... beep..._

Dark. Cold. Pain.

Air!

Hands grabbing him, pulling on him, threatening to rip him apart. His lungs protested.

His ribcage jerked and contracted. His mouth filled with filthy water.

Mind and body in discord. Loss of control.

_Think. Think!_

So dark... cold...

_John!_

A jolt ran through his emaciated figure as if it had been struck by lightning. Eyes uncoordinated and clouded. Hands burrowing amongst sheets and tubes, seeking something to anchor him. Almost simultaneously a frantic beeping, an alarm going off.

The world tilted on its side, triggering a dizzy spell that threatened to pull him right back under the water. He reached for his neck in panic, only to jerk back in alarm when pain flashed through the inside of his elbow.

Several faces in his peripheral vision. A frantic exchange of words. _Focus_. An oxygen mask. The feel of a needle piercing skin, delivered to his brain in a fraction of a second. First cold, then a seductive warmth slowly working its way through his body, quieting the trembling.

Stertorous breathing. Air, finally. Finally, air. Finally...

 

******

 

**48 days**

When Sherlock awoke the second time, he wasn't alone. A woman in a white coat stood next to his bed, making a note on a clipboard. When she realised that he was watching her, she turned around and walked to the door. Beside it, a telephone was mounted on the wall. She picked up the receiver, pressed 1 then 3 one-handed, and held the receiver to her ear.

"He's awake."

She'd barely finished saying the words before she hung up and came back, wrote something else on the clipboard, and finally set it down on the side table. She took a slim torch out of her breast pocket and shone it into Sherlock's reddened eyes. He frowned with displeasure and turned his head away, but she'd already switched off the light.

He felt miserable. His body was as heavy as a bag of wet sand and still seemed to be asleep. Several tubes were attached to it. One in the crook of his left arm, one in the back of his hand, affixed to his lower arm with white tape. They led to an IV stand with several bags. Two additional tubes disappeared underneath the white bedcover.

_What the hell..._

"Where..." Sherlock's voice was hoarse and scratchy, as if he hadn't made a sound in ages. He cleared his throat, which didn't quite work due to the lack of saliva and just caused an unpleasant burning sensation in his throat.

The woman in the white coat (a doctor? nurse?) didn't answer. She just looked at him, adjusted her glasses, and then left the small room.

Sherlock made a sound that was vaguely reminiscent of a growl and tried to get up, or at least to move into a sitting position. He couldn't manage to lift his head more than a couple of centimetres before sinking back onto the pillow, exhausted.

His eyes darted nervously around the sparse furnishings. There was a narrow locker behind the door and an upholstered chair standing by the left wall. In addition to the IV stand and the small table, there were a couple of other machines attached to him in some manner by tubes or wires. The constant beeping of the EKG and the ticking of the clock on the wall were – along with his overly loud breaths – the only sounds in the windowless room, which was barely ten square metres.

Sherlock noticed the small remote control device lying between his left hand and his hip. It had a black button with an arrow pointing upward, and a red button with an arrow pointing down. Morphine... Sherlock wasn't in any serious pain at the moment, however; there was just the heaviness like a lead weight pressing him down into the mattress. He reduced the dosage of the opiate and gave a heavy sigh.

Feeling along the bed frame, he found another remote control in a holder, which was needed to work the various functions of the bed. There was a strange humming sound when he raised, then lowered, the head of the bed until he'd found a comfortable height.

His gaze flicked anxiously to the clock. Scarcely five minutes had passed since the brief phone call. Enough time to slowly but surely go mad. Another twenty-two minutes and thirty-eight seconds passed before the door opened again.

"Sherlock."

"Mycr..." Sherlock's voice cracked halfway through. He closed his eyes for a moment in frustration, then glared furiously at his brother when he picked up the chair and set it down beside the bed. Mycroft perched on it as if he were serenity personified, then reached for the bottle on the side table and filled a plastic cup with water, which he then handed to Sherlock.

Sherlock was shaking so much that he needed to hold it with both hands, bringing it to his lips slowly to avoid spilling any of the contents. The water was like nectar. He greedily swallowed down every drop before holding the empty cup out to his brother, silently demanding more.

"I came as quickly as I could when they told me you'd woken up," Mycroft said, his expression sober, as he poured more water.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, relieved that his vocal cords were no longer refusing to function.

"I'd hoped you could tell me." Mycroft pursed his lips pompously. Sherlock was only too familiar with that smile – if you could call it that. It was one of the diplomatic tricks his brother employed when he asked questions to which he already knew the answer.

Sherlock swallowed down the anger that crept up his throat, already burning on his tongue. A biting comment would only ensure that he was left alone, at worst, and not be able to find out anything about his current situation.

Sherlock tried hard to remember the events that had brought him to this place. Random scraps of images flashed through his mind: Southwark Bridge, James Moriarty, that manic grin, hands on his neck, the railing at his back. The fall. John. Pain.

_John!_

Sherlock grabbed his chest and flinched. There was a bandage stretched across his upper body underneath the hospital smock. As he cautiously felt along its edges, he remembered the loud bang. A shot. At the moment when he fell, his body had been so full of adrenaline that he hadn't felt the pain, and had assumed the bullet had missed him.

The pain hadn't come until the filthy water of the Thames had him in its clutches, and Moriarty had slipped away from him instead. Sherlock drew in a breath sharply and honed in on his brother.

"He shot me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'd noticed that. Along with the fact that you pulled James Moriarty over the railing of Southwark Bridge. No, what I'd like to know is why you did it. Why didn't you stick to the plan? The entire affair could have been done and dusted a long time ago."

"He attacked me... I defended myself," Sherlock summarised vaguely, without meeting his brother's eyes. "He had a weapon in his hand, and I had nothing with which to protect myself. John was too far away, and then... then he was too close. I knew that Moriarty would shoot him once he'd killed me. He was out of control, completely insane..."

Mycroft huffed disapprovingly. "And so you leapt to your death in order to protect John Watson. How touching. Unfortunately, you didn't consider the consequences in the heat of the battle. If we hadn't had an agent stationed under the bridge, not only would James Moriarty most likely have drowned, but you as well. And how would I have explained that to Mummy?"

Sherlock returned his brother's condescending look grimly. "As if you hadn't any experience in such matters..." he muttered and turned his face away.

"Charming. Truly," Mycroft said, stood up, and went to the door.

Before he could open it and disappear, Sherlock called him back. "Where's John?"

Mycroft glanced demonstratively at his wristwatch, as if he didn't know down to the second what time it was. "Well... at this time of day, his lunch break is likely over... if he should have availed himself of it. But that's rarely the case these days. Afterwards, he'll probably go home and drink until Morpheus is merciful enough to embrace him. I'd give him at most four more days before his nerves run out and the situation escalates."

Sherlock gaped at his brother, open-mouthed. All the colour had drained from his face.

"Oh, don't worry. Precautions have been taken in order to prevent the worst."

"How... how long..."

"You were in a coma for forty-two days, brother mine. The recovery phase was initiated six days ago."

Sherlock swallowed heavily. Of course, John wouldn't be able to sit by his bed for six weeks, but he would have been informed as soon as Sherlock was awake, wouldn't he? Unless... Sherlock's eyes darted rapidly around the room before landing firmly on his brother.

"This isn't a normal hospital. Where am I?"

Mycroft slowly approached the bed again, stopped behind the chair, and ran his fingers across the top of the seat back. "You're in a secret MI6 facility. Only a small number of staff members know you're here, and I intend to keep it that way."

Sherlock stared at his brother in horror as the other shoe dropped. Suddenly, every trace of emotion disappeared from Sherlock's face. His voice became calm and collected. "He doesn't know I'm alive."

"No. You're dead. Officially. You were buried two weeks ago. The papers are still full of it," Mycroft explained. "A veritable circus."

Sherlock balled his hands into fists. The skin on the back of his hand stretched around the needle in his vein, twitching belligerently. His jaw ground down on the words he wanted to spit at Mycroft.

_Dead._

John thought he was dead...

The finality of that statement hadn't quite penetrated his mind, but his body was already reacting to it. The traitorous burning sensation behind his eyelids made him blink rapidly. With the small amount of strength still at his disposal, Sherlock sat up and leaned on his right arm.

"Why?!"

The single word bounced off the walls and rebounded off him, echoing in his ears and shaking him down to the marrow. His shoulders were shaking, and he didn't know whether it was because of the physical strain or the fury and grief that were battling over the dominion of his depleted body.

Mycroft waited before responding to the – obviously rhetorical – question. The likelihood that Sherlock was still suffering from the aftereffects of the coma and all of the medications indicated strongly that an explanation would be welcome at this juncture. He sighed in a theatrical manner and sat back down on the chair, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap.

"We did take James Moriarty into custody, Sherlock, but at this point in time we aren't able to say who has assumed control of the organisation. One presumes that Colonel Moran is not the only one of Moriarty's henchmen with a bit of autonomy. The network is far too extensive for that. Moriarty is quite obviously out to get you, and will stop at nothing to endanger everyone who means anything to you. He doesn't intend to kill you. He wants to destroy you on a much more fundamental level."

_I'll burn the heart out of you!_

"On a level, brother dear, of which I have warned you your entire life."

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Feeling the strain in his body, Sherlock exhaled the air from his lungs and closed his eyes for a moment. His exhaustion was bone-deep, and demanded ever more of his fragile attention. The pain was returning, slowly but surely: it had found itself a cosy spot in his body, and was only being held in check by the morphine.

"But why did you have to make me deceased for that?" he asked, and his voice didn't sound half as angry as he'd wanted to make it. His left hand felt its way across the sheets as if of its own accord, searching for the small remote control device, and grasped it firmly, although without increasing the dose of the pain medication. He didn't want to show Mycroft even more of his weakness.

"You should be grateful." Mycroft laughed mirthlessly. "But I know gratitude isn't one of your strengths. It's really quite simple. Rather than tearing four of your friends out of the midst of their lives and giving them new identities, we've removed you as Moriarty's antagonist. No opponent, no game. Mrs Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Victor Trevor, and John Watson become uninteresting as pressure points, and we can dismantle the organisation piece by piece without opening ourselves up to blackmail."

Sherlock leaned back, drained, and brushed a few unruly locks of hair off his forehead. They were tangled and the ends were split. His respiration was shallow and wheezy as he pierced Mycroft with a burning glare. His brother was apparently trying to make it clear to him that he'd lose John either way. If not through his own death, then by the hand of James Moriarty or his henchmen. All because Moriarty wanted to see him suffer.

"You should maintain a low profile until you've recovered fully. Unfortunately, those four aren't exactly the most trustworthy of secret-keepers. Any contact with them would inevitably place them squarely in the crosshairs of the organisation, and if that becomes the case, I can't guarantee for their safety. Naturally we're keeping an eye on them, but up to now there hasn't been any indication that anyone has wanted to take revenge on them for Moriarty's death."

"And what about Moriarty?" Sherlock asked softly. He struggled against the fatigue that encircled him in a loving embrace, dragging his eyelids downward. It was only the pain in his chest that was helping him stay awake.

"He hasn't revealed anything yet. He simply lets the interrogations happen with a manic smile on his face, and..." Mycroft cut himself off and casually plucked a couple of invisible bits of fuzz off his trouser leg.

"And what?"

"He never tires of relating all the ways in which he wants to break you."

 

******

 

**57 days**

Sherlock had memorised every millimetre of the room where he'd spent the past eight weeks. The thirteen shades of blue of the textured walls, shifting tones as the light changed; the two hundred and forty scratches and scuffs from the polishing machines on the linoleum floor; the three dents and eight spots where paint was flaking off the locker.

The pounding in Sherlock's temples, caused by the static hum of the machines and the monotonous beeping of the EKG, had become a constant companion. He knew that at least seventeen different people had passed by his room and was able to identify the two nurses and the orderly who took care of his needs throughout the day by the sound of their footsteps.

The blonde woman who had been in his room when he'd woken up took long, confident strides and didn't announce herself in any other manner. She worked with precision, changed tubes and bags without batting an eyelash, noted down the information churned out by the machines, and disappeared again. She never said a word.

The short, dark-haired woman had a rapid gait and dragged her feet a little, as if her legs had been bound together at the knees such that she wasn't able to take adequate steps. She would always rap the door once with her knuckles before entering the room. She was constantly changing her hairstyle, which indicated to Sherlock that it must be a new day each time.

The three carers' schedule didn't seem to follow any particular pattern, or at least Sherlock hadn't decoded it yet. An additional factor was his medication, which made him nod off at intervals, confusing him further. The brunette always had a friendly smile, if somewhat shy. She brought him his meals, which generally consisted of sweetened or savoury porridge. There would also be either soft tinned fruit or overcooked vegetable, soup, some rice or millet. It was impossible to tell what was intended as breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

The orderly also had brown hair, if a shade lighter, and came across as very serious about his work. He would take Sherlock's blood pressure, sometimes a blood sample, or check Sherlock's bandages. He sometimes moved Sherlock's legs in order to stimulate his muscles. He also washed Sherlock and helped him into a clean hospital gown. The few words they exchanged usually concerned Sherlock's condition. The orderly always said everything was healing well, and that Sherlock would be back on his feet in no time. After a week, Sherlock was on the verge of strangling the orderly if he had to hear that phrase one more time.

There was some improvement, to be sure, but Sherlock couldn't really gauge it, not having been conscious to experience the full extent of the damage. The new skin over the bullet wound was still dark red, but the worst was definitely behind him. The bullet wound followed by pneumothorax and dyspnoea, hitting the water and the broken ribs and break in his left leg that had been the result... without the immediate response from Mycroft's team, it would have been impossible for him to survive.

Sherlock pushed the thought deep down into the furthest corner of his consciousness: that Mycroft's detailed planning was responsible for his survival. After all, he was still officially dead. Dead and buried.

The fatigue simply wouldn't go away. Sherlock wasn't ready to admit that his body was still completely depleted even after weeks of rest, and everything he did took its toll. One time, the orderly brought him a murder mystery novel, which Sherlock eyed with disgust. It didn't take long, however, until the monotony became the greater evil, and Sherlock picked up the book. He already knew after the first chapter who the victim and the murderer would be, but he didn't get very far into it because his eyes kept falling shut until, sighing, he eventually gave in to the demands of his body.

He slept an extraordinary amount. Maybe his body was taking the rare opportunity to catch up on all of the sleep it had been denied over the last decade. But Sherlock never felt completely rested. His mind's unaccustomed lethargy frustrated him to no end, yet he still couldn't decide whether it was better to be awake and wait for the few moments of alertness, or to sleep and dream.

His dreams were full of colours and shapes rushing past. They went by so fast, they were nearly impossible to grasp, as if his subconscious were fast-forwarding the dream like a filmstrip. All he was able to get was a vague idea, a rough sketch of everything that had settled in the depths of his mind.

It had nothing to do with his mind palace, although he thought he recognised many of the images. It was as if someone had uprooted them from their accustomed positions and transported them into this empty space where a hurricane was raging. With time, Sherlock managed to catch hold of a few individual images and hold onto them for a few seconds before the storm tore them away from him again.

John and Redbeard were there, Victor, and even Mrs Hudson. But so was Moriarty with his manic grin. Lestrade tied up in a dark cellar. The stuffed wolf from the zoo. Mrs Hudson and the bomb. And John, over and over. John.

His anchor in the storm. His beacon of light in the dark of night.

Sometimes it hurt too much to think about John. At moments like that, Sherlock pushed all those thoughts aside and tried to focus on something else. His breathing, his heartbeat, Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_. He retreated deep into his mind palace. Into a dark room, empty except for a single spotlight. Everything else disappeared in the darkness.

He stood in the centre of the spotlight and thought about his violin. It materialised in his hands, settling against him like a long-time lover, vibrating under his fingers with the first stroke across its trembling strings. Sherlock began to compose a piece that captured his loneliness and yearning in musical notes. Words had no place here. He listened over and over to the gentle tones, making corrections now and then, weaving passages together here and there, and letting himself be buoyed up by the melody.

"Sherlock."

A hand appeared in the darkness and grasped his shoulder. Startled, Sherlock whirled around and flung open his eyes. He was lying in the hospital bed once more. The sounds of his violin were replaced by the beeping of the machines. It smelled of cotton and disinfectant. Black tea and rain. Woozy with sleep, he glanced over his shoulder and found his brother's face.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock rolled onto his back in alarm and wiped his sticky eyes. Mycroft didn't visit often. In fact, never. Something must have happened. "What's happened?" Sherlock asked, once he'd cleared his throat.

Mycroft held out a red folder and sat down once Sherlock had taken it and flipped it open. Inside were several photographs of a young man involved in an altercation. He had short black hair and dark eyes. The similarity to James Moriarty was striking, but the numerous tattoos and piercings – not to mention his age – made it clear that it was a different person.

"Do you know the individual in the photos?" Mycroft asked, his hands resting on top of each other on the handle of his wet umbrella.

Several people were standing in the background of the photos, watching the spectacle, but no one intervened. The attacker wasn't visible. Just the fist gripping the man's collar, along with the cuffs of a dark blue shirt.

John.

There was no doubt. Sherlock would have recognised that shirt anywhere. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and forced his expression into one of cool detachment.

"I don't know him. But I'm not surprised that John attacked him. The similarity to Moriarty is striking. Is there any connection?" No one would have noticed the faint quiver in Sherlock's voice. No one but Mycroft.

"Nicholas McAllister. He worked for Moran, client acquisition, but he never met Moriarty as far as we're aware. Of course he's being kept under surveillance. We'll see if he's of any significance to the mission."

"Why did John attack him? Despite the similarity, he must have realised it couldn't possible be Moriarty." Sherlock watched his brother closely. The fact that he'd only brought photos that didn't show John directly was already quite revealing. Something was fishy about the whole thing

Mycroft shrugged disinterestedly and let his gaze wander around the sparsely furnished room. Sherlock's eyes flickered over his brother as he tried to put the facts together to form a larger picture. His head wasn't very happy about the effort it took, and reported back with a nasty pounding. Peeved, Sherlock ignored the pain and looked at the photos again.

"So he worked for Moran. He's angry, very angry; a loyal employee... a friend? John put Moran out of commission. Therefore... it can be assumed that this man attacked John. What... what are you not telling me? If something had happened to John, you would have told me right away." Sherlock interrupted himself and pulled air in loudly through his nose. "Wouldn't you?" The question was barely more than a whisper.

Trembling with worry and anger at Mycroft's non-reaction, Sherlock glared at his brother, not daring to push him and possibly chase him away. After all, Mycroft was the only one who would bring him information. Having to rely on him was... bothersome. A sense of helplessness spread through Sherlock, and he took a shaky breath.

Mycroft reached into the briefcase next to his chair, opened the side flap, and took out three more pictures, which he passed to Sherlock without comment, all the while keeping a close watch on his face.

_Ah._

McAllister had dragged Victor to the ground. John had gone to help him. Sherlock recalled with an unpleasant burning sensation in his stomach the circumstances in which Victor had last come to Baker Street. He'd had drugs with him and offered some to Sherlock, but Sherlock hadn't wanted any. He'd taken the little baggie of cocaine away from Victor, but John had still been angry at him, not wanting to believe that he'd only been trying to protect Victor.

If those drugs came from McAllister, there might have been a connection between Moran and Victor that he hadn't been aware of. Had John realised what that connection was, or had his relationship to Victor assumed a very different character in the wake of Sherlock's death?

"It looks as if your two... friends... have made peace since John saved Victor Trevor. Moran lured him into a trap and replicated a scene from the story of Sleeping Beauty. The pattern is repeating itself. However, there were deviations from the previous abductions, presumably due to the fact that you dragged Moriarty down over the railing. If you think you're in any condition, you should have a closer look at the files. You certainly have enough time on your hands," Mycroft said, indicating the red folder on the bed.

"How is John?" Sherlock didn't look at his brother. Instead, he examined the pictures, trying to glean as many clues from them as possible. John looked drained, and at the same time incredibly angry.

"Trevor truly seems to be the only person with whom John exchanges more than a word or two outside of the clinic. Remarkable, when one considers the conflict of interest caused by his relationship with you."

 

+++

tbc


	24. 181 Days (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

**105 days**

Sherlock jerked out of a nightmare with a scream, flinching when pain immediately zinged through his body. The bandages and tubes had been removed by now, but the pain seemed to want to keep him company a while longer. Sherlock huffed and tried to orient himself in the dark room. The only illumination was a thin strip of blue lights along the upper edge of the skirting board in the otherwise pitch-black, windowless room.

He was still inside some secret MI6 facility. It was true that they'd moved him to another room where he had his own bathroom along with a desk, wardrobe, computer without internet access, and a number of books. Still, Sherlock couldn't help feeling like a wildcat in a cage that was much too small.

When his heart rate had calmed somewhat, Sherlock pushed his damp curls off his forehead, rubbed his sticky eyes, and sat up. He felt for the half-full water bottle on the night stand and emptied it in a single chug.

He had no idea whether it was day or night. It didn't matter. A glance at the clock on the wall told him that he'd slept a little less than two hours. He silently cursed Mycroft for this utterly unnecessary measure of leaving him to rot in this concrete prison without a single scrap of information. It was impossible to tell whether it was a punishment or simply intended for his safety.

Did Mycroft trust him so little that he assumed Sherlock would instantly betray the mission and go back to John? What good would that do to expose not only John but also Victor, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade to such a risk?

The sound of the gunshot still echoed in Sherlock's ears. He swallowed past the lump in his throat that appeared at the thought of the bullet that had bored its way through his skin and bones. It made him think automatically of John and how he'd been shot in Afghanistan. How dark blood must have seeped out of the wound, staining the sand deep red beneath him. All of a sudden, Sherlock understood better than ever before how frightened John must have been at that moment, how terrible it was to slowly but surely bleed to death and not be able to do anything about it.

_Please, God, let me live._

Sherlock was alive, and yet also dead. Dead and buried. Separated from the few people who meant anything to him, who had given his life some meaning. But there was nothing to be done. Much worse than his own loss was the unsupportable certainty of how much John was suffering under the circumstances. The few pictures and reports that Sherlock had received from Mycroft showed that all too clearly.

At least John had taken up sports again after his hours had been reduced at work. Sherlock only got the bare minimum of information out of Mycroft, but he was still able to piece together what must have happened, by and large. After all, he knew John better than anyone else.

John's resumption of his therapy sessions was probably intended to show Sherlock that John was willing to accept help and was therefore on the road to recovery. At the same time, Ella Thompson hadn't noticed what had caused John's psychosomatic limp the last time. Something that Sherlock was going through himself now, except in his case it was the pain in his chest that wouldn't go away.

His physical wounds were pretty much healed now. He was brought to a fitness room twice a week for physical therapy to counteract muscle atrophy and increase his mobility. It was hard work, and painful, but Sherlock went without complaint since the other room was the only one with a window. Sherlock couldn't see anything other than a bit of sky, to be sure, but at least it was better than nothing.

What was more unpleasant were the forty-five minutes of psychotherapy that he had to put up with once a week. Psychologist A's questions (Sherlock didn't make any effort to remember her name) were utterly inane. He could only venture an estimate of how many times he'd said during their first session that he was fine and didn't need a shrink. And so he'd started deducing. Psychologist A had left the room in tears and not returned.

The whole thing had earned Sherlock a visit from Mycroft, who had simply given him a disapproving glare. He'd disappeared as silently as he'd come; after all, there wasn't anything to say about the incident that Sherlock wasn't fully aware of himself.

Psychologist B didn't ask how Sherlock was doing. Instead, he launched right into topics touching on the past. He'd obviously received information from Mycroft, since he was able to pose direct questions about events in Sherlock's life.

Sherlock's drug use in particular was a theme he kept bringing up. Sherlock had crossed his arms over his chest at first and looked demonstratively off to the side in order to make it clear that he wasn't going to respond. But when the psychologist brought up that one particular incident, Sherlock had leapt to his feet, furious, and run to the door, only to find that it was locked.

"That was your second overdose, wasn't it?" The psychologist waited for several moments in vain for an answer while Sherlock stood in front of the door with his fists clenched. Then he spoke again: "Why did you overdose the first time? Was it intentional or an error in judgment?"

Silence.

"Was it the loneliness? You won't be sent on this mission if you're not stable enough to handle the loneliness you're sure to be confronted with, Mr Holmes. The risk would be too high. Not only for you, but for the outcome of the mission, naturally. None of this is going to end if you're not in proper condition."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relaxed his cramped hands, and turned around to go back to the chair and sit down again. His eyes flicked over the psychologist, but he'd already seen everything there that there was to know about the man. Early fifties. One daughter in her teens. Never married. Black cat. Did sports to balance out his job as a psychologist. Squash. Right-handed. Smoker. No experience with field work. Not an agent. Clothing not new but tidy. Thrifty or underpaid?

Nothing. Nothing he could use. Mycroft must have hand-picked him.

"Why do you think it was loneliness?"

Psychologist B obviously knew more than he should already. The question was: how much?

"Your partner at the time, Victor Trevor, left for Harvard and you felt abandoned. You'd already had difficulty at school making connections, and Mr Trevor's departure left you feeling deserted and rejected," the psychologist offered as an explanation.

"I wasn't _alone_ ," Sherlock countered, narrowing his eyes.

The psychologist lowered his eyes and scanned his notes, made an affirmative sound, and looked up again. "Abigail Thomas. She was Mr Trevor's flatmate, wasn't she? Do you have feelings of guilt associated with her death?"

Sherlock's face was no more than a flat mask. Cold crept through his veins, clawed its way into his guts, and stole the breath from his lungs. He felt as if he were splintering into tiny pieces and falling apart; he had to look away in order not to allow any insights into what was going on inside him.

"What happened back then, Mr Holmes?"

"As if you didn't know that already." Sherlock's voice sounded calmer than he felt.

"Your performance at university deteriorated rapidly. You frequently missed lectures. Instead, you were often seen at parties and other social events. You took drugs, had a series of lovers..." The psychologist was reading from his notes. "That seems to me to be rather self-destructive behaviour. You're lucky you escaped without any further damage."

Sherlock remained silent, staring down at his folded hands. The time period that had been described wasn't one he remembered fondly.

"Ms Thomas wanted to fetch you that evening from an abandoned building where junkies gathered to do drugs, didn't she?" Sherlock's head jerked in the faintest possible suggestion of a nod. "You'd already taken a hit and were no longer responsive. Ms Thomas called an ambulance and tried to get you out of the building, but she fell afoul of someone else. A junkie?"

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated in a low voice without looking up.

"An altercation occurred, during which Ms Thomas suffered a craniocerebral injury and died before the ambulance arrived. Why did you never go looking for the guilty party?"

"I certainly did try to find the perpetrator, but I... have virtually no memory of that time. My condition was... poor, and... the few clues I _did_ find didn't lead anywhere. It was almost as if..." Sherlock broke off and pressed his lips together so as not to let the rest of the sentence out.

"As if what, Mr Holmes?"

"You wouldn't believe me anyway," Sherlock answered, glancing off to the side. His eyes darted to the abstract painting that hung on the wall to his right. It depicted grey and black blotches that were intersected by vertical lines and arcs across the entire canvas, as if a child had dragged its fingers through the wet paint. A single red spot sat prominently in the centre of the upper third of the painting like a sun.

"Try me."

Sherlock gave the psychologist a hard look. "I don't think the perpetrator was a junkie. Abigail didn't call the ambulance. She didn't have a mobile phone, and she would never have left me alone in there, so she tried to get me out. No one seems to have been with her who might have helped. But the perpetrator was definitely already inside the building. He was with me before Abigail arrived. He... was holding my hand and talking to me."

"What was he saying to you?"

Sherlock shook his head, troubled. "I don't know anymore. The only thing I can recall is that the voice was familiar, and that I was afraid."

 

******

 

**161 days**

"Is that really necessary?"

Mycroft exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes in annoyance. "I thought you'd be pleased to be getting out of here, Sherlock. It's only for a few weeks. You should use the chance to say goodbye to them."

Sherlock curled his lips unwillingly and continued packing the scant number of items that had accumulated over the past months. They consisted only of a couple of articles of clothing that Mycroft had brought him and notes that Sherlock had put together for the Moriarty case.

"Do you have the video?"

In lieu of a response, Mycroft took out a USB stick from his trouser pocket and inserted it into the appropriate computer port. He clicked on the single file the stick contained, which launched a video program, then stepped back so that Sherlock could sit at the desk.

A small interrogation room appeared on the screen. In the middle was a table with two chairs across from each other. The door opened, and a handcuffed James Moriarty was led in by an agent in a suit and tie, and placed on the chair on the left. The agent twisted Moriarty's arms around behind him, attached the cuffs to the back of the chair, and left the room again. The prisoner surveyed the space with a smirk on his face. When he discovered the camera, he grinned a little more broadly and gave it a conspiratorial wink.

Sherlock noticed that the chair on the left looked different than the one on the right. The chair legs were sturdier, and even though he couldn't see the floor, he assumed that they were fixed in place there in order to prevent the prisoner from escaping. The right-hand chair was a normal folding chair that could be removed from the room at any time, just like the table.

Despite Moriarty's amused expression, it was clear that he was exhausted. Dark rings beneath his eyes, sunken cheeks, scruff on his face. The time stamp in the upper right corner showed that this particular recording had been made thirty days after the fall from the bridge. Another man in a black suit entered the interrogation chamber, sat down at the table, and folded his hands on top of it.

"What were you doing on Southwark Bridge shortly after midnight on the night of June 17th to 18th of this year, Mr Moriarty?"

The man being addressed remained silent, tilting his head as if he were taking in a particularly interesting show.

"What was your connection to Colonel Sebastian Moran? Who do you work for? Who is giving you orders? What do you want from Sherlock Holmes?" The agent paused after each one of these questions and waited for an answer, but Moriarty didn't say a word, just kept grinning to himself. A good half hour passed in this manner before the agent capitulated and stood up. Before he'd reached the door, the video cut out and the scene jumped to the next recording.

The spiel repeated. The questions stayed the same, and Moriarty stayed silent. Mycroft reached for the mouse and fast-forwarded the video. When he got to a recording two weeks later, he returned to normal speed.

The same room, the same agent. Moriarty was sitting chained to the chair on the left, regarding the other man. He'd been shaved in the intervening time, but fresh stubble was already appearing. This time he wasn't smiling, instead appearing apathetic. When the agent had ended his list of questions, Moriarty turned his head toward the camera in slow motion and stared into the lens.

"Sheeerlooock..." he said in a monotone and started to giggle.

An icy shiver ran down Sherlock's spine. He swallowed past the thick feeling in his throat and tried not to let anything show.

"What do you want from Sherlock Holmes?" the agent repeated, emphasising each word individually.

Moriarty's gaze wandered over to the man, but he turned his head more slowly, as if he found it difficult to look away from the camera. He frowned sadly and shrugged his shoulders as much as he could with his wrists cuffed.

"I only want to know how he's doing. It's obvious he survived, otherwise you'd use the past tense. Is he back home?" he asked in a fake-worried tone of voice.

Without responding to the question, the agent got up and left the room.

The scene shifted. This time it wasn't the interrogation room that was shown, but the cell containing Moriarty. The only furnishings were a toilet and a stainless steel cot with a thin mattress, a pillow, and a blanket. Moriarty stood in one corner facing the wall and muttering something that didn't reach the camera microphone.

Mycroft paused the video and cleared his throat. "A sound specialist took a look at this segment and decoded what was said."

"And? What is he saying?" Sherlock asked when his brother didn't continue of his own accord.

"I quote: 'You're mine, Sherlock, you belong to me. I'll rip your heart out of your chest and replace it with mine. We belong together, Sherlock. So many years... so many years... you're going to burn, and you're going to love it'," Mycroft read off in a calm voice from a piece of paper which he returned to his breast pocket when he was finished. He looked down at Sherlock where he was sitting, apparently waiting for a reaction, but Sherlock simply had no idea how to respond to those words.

Moriarty was obviously mentally disturbed, and being held in that tiny cell probably hadn't done much to improve his condition. Unfortunately, Sherlock was able to sympathise all too well. "Continue."

In the next couple of scenes on the video, the interrogation continued, but Moriarty continued to remain silent. Now and then his cell was shown as it slowly transformed. Moriarty had begun to scratch letters into the concrete with the handle of a plastic spoon until the same word stood several times over in differing sizes on all of the walls in the camera's range: _SHERLOCK_.

The next recording was barely three seconds long and showed Mycroft entering the cell; then the scene was cut. Sherlock immediately reached for the mouse and clicked on 'pause', whipped around, and gave his brother a challenging look. "Why was it cut here? What did he say to you?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together and shook his head very slightly. "Nothing. He didn't say anything to me. He merely... laughed. I presume he was just waiting for me to lose my temper."

Sherlock turned back to the screen, grumbling, and pressed 'play'. The interrogation room appeared again, but this time Mycroft was already seated when a limping Moriarty was brought in and chained to the usual chair. His face was disfigured, marred by dark red and blue bruises in several places. A laceration that had been covered with a thick gauze pad stood out over his left eye, which was heavily swollen. He must have been hit by several blows.

Despite it all, the prisoner drew his mouth into a manic grin. Blood coloured his teeth pink.

"Sorry you needed to change your suit on my account, Mycroft. Blood's the dickens to get out, unfortunately," Moriarty declared with a slight slur to his voice. He'd probably been given some medication to numb the pain. Bloody saliva dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, and he made a big show out of catching the moisture with his tongue.

Sherlock's eye automatically flicked to the upper right corner of the screen. Indeed: it was a recording from the same day as the previous one, just two and a half hours later. Sherlock paused the video again and sighed. Without looking up at his brother, he said, "You shouldn't have done that. No court in the world would accept a statement after the use of violence."

"I'm aware of that. But that's not what I was after," Mycroft replied calmly.

Sherlock sat for a moment, absorbing the words. Mycroft did not lose control over himself. Never. Especially not in a situation that might endanger the outcome of a mission. The video material along with the eyewitness accounts from the people who had patched Moriarty up afterwards also put Mycroft's own position and trustworthiness at risk. After all, it wasn't his place to execute justice over a criminal. At least not when there was no proof of his guilt.

With an uneasy feeling, Sherlock started the video again, staring at the screen, in which his elder brother's reflection was visible.

"What do you want from Sherlock Holmes?"

"The icccceman. But I can hear it cracking, Mycroft. The ice. You're worried. You're worried about your little brother. The baby of the family. You want to protect him from all the pain that's out there in the world, and in doing so you keep pushing him further into ruin." Moriarty's shoulders jerked up and down as he blurted out a crazed titter. "You and me. We're not so dissimilar, Mycroft. I'm worried too. I just want to know whether he really survived that _unfortunate_ shot, and how he's doing."

Mycroft remained silent for several seconds before speaking again. "He's dead."

"Prove it to me."

Mycroft took out his phone and opened the image folder, placed the device on the table, and turned it around so that Moriarty could see it.

"A gravestone? What's that supposed to prove? Anyone can have a name carved into a grave marker and set it up on speck of earth. Come _on_ , don't be ridiculous."

"You'll have to take my word for it, James," Mycroft replied and took back his phone.

"Show me his corpse." The smug smile didn't disappear from Moriarty's lips. He knew he had the better cards in this game, if the British government wanted to get any information at all out of him.

Mycroft was also painfully aware of that fact. With a resigned sigh, he swiped his thumb across the screen a couple of times and slid the phone towards Moriarty again. Moriarty leaned over the table with a hungry gleam in his eye and studied the picture. It showed Sherlock sleeping in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires.

" _Oh_... as charming as a broken angel, isn't he? Show me another."

Mycroft pulled up the next picture, which showed Sherlock during physical therapy. The strain was written all over his face as he leaned on a wall in order to take tentative steps.

"Another," Moriarty demanded.

"I haven't any more recent." Mycroft put the phone back in his breast pocket and placed his hands flat on his thighs. Sherlock could see how difficult it was for him to keep calm. "Your turn. Answer my question."

Moriarty leaned back in his chair with an ugly smile and tilted his head slightly to the left. His nearly black eyes regarded Mycroft from below, as if he had him exactly where he wanted him. "You're such a darling, Mycroft! Just like I imagined you'd be."

"Charming," Mycroft replied easily. "Can we get back to the business at hand now? With whom are you collaborating, James?"

Another giggle echoed between the walls before Moriarty answered: " _The roads we walk have demons beneath_. And yours have been waiting for a very long time, Mycroft."

 

******

 

**181 days**

"Have you understood? If they find you out, the mission has failed and I cannot make guarantees for anyone or anything anymore, Sherlock. So get yourself under control, for heaven's sake!"

Silence.

"Sherlock!!"

"Yes... Mycroft... I've got it." Sherlock ended the call, closed the phone, and handed it to Mrs Holmes. Her alert, concerned eyes rested on her youngest son for a long time before she reached for his arm and gently rubbed it.

"You heard him. John and Victor will be here in a few minutes. They can't know I'm here, so please keep them away from this room and make sure you get rid of them quickly," Sherlock said, frowning again in irritation.

"I'll do my best, my boy, but don't expect me to toss them out without hearing what they have to say. That kind of discourtesy would be much more conspicuous and raise questions. I'll make you some sandwiches so you can eat while you're waiting."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock mumbled, but he was interrupted by a disapproving tongue click. Well, at least the food here was a step above MI6, although Sherlock couldn't fathom getting so much as a single bite down. The mere thought that John and Victor would shortly be just a few scant metres away from him made his entire body buzz with excitement.

His heart was racing and his breaths were automatically coming shorter. He felt hot and cold all over. Anxiety and anticipation flowed through his veins in equal measures, making him slightly shaky, unable to either sit still or pace back and forth.

After his mother had handed him the plate of sandwiches, Sherlock locked the room and rolled up a blanket to cover the crack at the bottom of the door. He drew the curtains shut over the window and walked over the floorboards again to memorise where he had to step in order to move silently. When he heard the taxi pull up in the street in front of the house, he immediately turned off the light and slid down the wall next to the door to sit on the floor.

His entire body was vibrating when he heard the doorbell. He slung both arms over his head, dug his fingers into his dark brown curls, and tried to breathe as quietly as possible. His heart was beating so loud, however, that he wouldn't have been surprised if John could hear it.

_John... John, I miss you so much... John... Why did you have to come here, of all places? Why are you making this so difficult for me? John...._

Some time passed, during which Sherlock couldn't hear anything at all. His own breaths and heartbeat were his only company. The buzz of the electricity in the wall. Occasionally a car passing in the street. A bird chirping.

He vigorously suppressed the desire to leave the room and go down to join the others. To put his arms around John and Victor and drive home with them. He ripped the urge out of his consciousness and hid it deep inside his mind palace. In the place where he hid all of the small, private things that got in the way of his work.

The front door shut with a bang, and barely a fraction of a second later, Sherlock leapt to his feet and rushed to the window to make sure that John and Victor had left the house. But instead of the two men, Sherlock saw his father standing facing the street, his hands grasping his forehead. He looked worn out and upset, in his own quiet way. The tension in his shoulders was obvious.

What had happened? What had they discussed that would have an effect like that on the man who was otherwise such an even-tempered port in every storm?

A jolt went down Sherlock's spine when he heard the stairs creaking and his mother's voice. He held his breath anxiously, listening to every sound that came from the other side of the door, and silently slipped back to his previous position.

"Here, this is a nice picture of him," Sherlock heard his mother saying, and leaned as close to the door as he could without touching it.

"May I?"

_John!_

The sound of John's voice sent a hot tingling sensation down Sherlock's back. Suppressing any sound that might betray him, he bit down hard on his lips and dug his fingers into the soft material of his shirt and the skin beneath it. His heart was beating against his ribs so hard that the phantom pain he'd fought off successfully in the past few days now returned in a matter of seconds.

"Thanks." Footsteps rang out in the hall outside Sherlock's room, but John's lighter steps stopped suddenly. "Which one was Sherlock's room?"

Sherlock pressed both hands over his mouth, digging his teeth into his bottom lip, and closed his eyes.

"Oh. I'll bet this was his room, wasn't it?" The light-heared amusement in John's voice almost robbed Sherlock of his last shred of sanity. They were so close, yet worlds apart. If it weren't for the door, Sherlock would only have needed to reach out his hand to touch John, pull him close, hold him tight. Never let him go again. Never.

"I'd like to see how he lived..."

_No, no, no! John, no! Please..._

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Sherlock's mother replied calmly. "We cleared out his things years ago. It's nothing more than a storage room now."

The image of John staring at the door, his fingers tracing the notches in the door frame, burned their way uninvited into Sherlock's mind. John, here in his old house, no more than thirty centimetres between them, as if they were fated to keep finding their way back to each other.

_Leave... please..._

"Are you coming?"

"Yes... I'm sorry." Footsteps. The stairs creaking, and not long after that the front door finally falling shut again. With the last of his strength, Sherlock dragged himself back to the window and looked out. Saw John and Victor saying good-bye to his father and passing through the garden gate, walking down the road like two old friends until he couldn't see them anymore.

Sherlock sank to his knees, shaking, and rested his head against the mattress of his bed. The pain weighed heavily in his chest, radiating out into the rest of his body. Pain that proved he was alive. Dead, yet alive.

With a broken heart.

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW: The German version story was written...  
> Raw: 11. April 2015 – 18. October 2015  
> Vertigo: 5. December 2015 - 7. March 2017  
> ...so there was few S4 (ugh!) influence. But as you see, the S4 trailer had some influence on this little story after all... :p


	25. Sunday, 16.12.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

John tossed and turned. He couldn't sleep. It was almost three a.m., but all of the information he'd gathered over the past couple of days was still buzzing and whirring in his head.

Sherrinford... why had Sherlock never said anything about his oldest brother? Why hadn't John found so much as the slightest hint about him anywhere? In his mind, John went back through the contents of the box he'd tossed Sherlock's documents into. A sudden burst of energy had him jumping out of bed and rushing out of the room to climb the stairs to the second floor.

The room felt abandoned, despite the fact that it was stuffed full of all kinds of things. The air smelled stale. He turned the light on and looked around. Dust swirled up. Cardboard boxes and suitcases stood in front of the wardrobe and the narrow chest of drawers. The box he was looking for sat on his old bed, whose mattress was covered with a sheet to protect it. John opened the flaps of the box and looked over what was inside.

The contents were all mixed up after Victor had knocked the box over by mistake and they'd thrown all of the papers back in without any kind of order. Impulsively, John set the box down on the floor and tipped it out. It was only a vague hope, but maybe he'd find some information on Sherrinford that would reveal more about the third son in the Holmes family. Something that could explain the secrecy.

John sat down cross-legged on the floor and went through the papers one by one, briefly skimming the contents and putting them in order. Most of the documents were inquiries to the consulting detective Sherlock had once been. John couldn't tell whether they were cases Sherlock had solved or ones he'd turned down, but he suspected that Sherlock wouldn't have kept the latter, despite his tendency to messiness.

There were also two notebooks in the midst of the pile, which John quickly leafed through and set aside. He'd spend more time on those later. It didn't take long before he found the letter with the bird insignia addressed to the mysterious 'W'. John wondered why Sherlock had never sent it. There was no address on the envelope. Maybe the person had moved to an unknown address, or Sherlock had reconsidered and decided not to send the letter after all.

When John took out the folded paper and opened it, his eyes widened.

_Dear W.,_

_"Cock-a-doodle-do  
The golden girl has come home too."_

_No matter how many good deeds you do – they'll never accept you the way you are._

_SH_

It wasn't the same letter; it was a different one from Sherlock to W. John reached for the envelope with trembling fingers, examined it from every angle, peered inside, looking for clues, but other than the bird insignia, there was nothing to find. This letter had also been written on an old-fashioned typewriter. No date, no handwritten signature.

John set the paper down next to him and started to rummage through the rest of the pile. His heart was racing. His breaths lurched unevenly out of his lungs. He leafed through a bundle of loose pages anxiously, trying not to miss anything, swore when he cut himself on a paper edge, and stuck his smarting thumb into his mouth. After several minutes, he'd worked his way through the papers and found around thirty envelopes. Twelve bore the bird insignia, while the rest consisted of inquiries from clients, correspondence from Scotland Yard, and summons.

In the course of his search, John had collected all of the bird letters in a separate pile without looking inside. Now that he'd completed the first part of his task, he heaved the box back up onto the bed, stacked the yellowed envelopes together, and took them downstairs along with the two notebooks. He set them all down on the kitchen table, leaned on it with both arms, and let his head hang down. He tried to collect himself with several deep breaths.

He took a good, hard look inside himself. Why was he so agitated? It wasn't as if finding the letters would make Sherlock rise from the dead. Still, this all seemed like some kind of sign from the beyond. A flicker of light in the utter darkness, even if it were nothing more than the reflection of the moon on the infinite mass of black water inside him. After months of mindless grief, he could feel the sense of oppression loosening. As if someone had turned a rusty gear two notches forward before it locked into place again.

He boiled a pot of tea in order to calm down before he took the letters out of their envelopes one at a time and spread them out on the table, always taking care to keep the envelopes and letters together. All of the letters consisted of a single sheet of paper with just a couple of lines of text written on them; all were addressed to 'W' and signed with Sherlock's initials.

John sighed and lifted the teacup to his mouth to take a sip. He skimmed the letters until he'd found the first one, the one he and Victor had discovered, and put it in the upper left corner of the table. Next to it he placed the second letter which he had read shortly before.

The third contained the following text:

_Dear W.,_

_How many times now have I had to steal three golden hairs from the devil for the "King"? You'd better watch out, he's so greedy and simple-minded that he'll never get enough._

_SH_

It was obvious that some secret message was hidden behind the words; a message that wasn't intended for John's eyes. He couldn't help but notice that all of the texts sounded suspiciously like excerpts from fairy tales. John couldn't recall whether his parents had ever read him any fairy tales. He was only familiar with a couple of details from the more well-known stories. But without further assistance, he wasn't able to match the letters with the associated fairy tales.

The Frog Prince – that's what the first letter must mean. The other two didn't ring any bells for him.

John niggled at his lower lip as he thought. Might these fairy tale letters have something to do with Moriarty? It was a pretty bloody huge coincidence that they'd come to light so shortly after his death. Of course, they were too old to have anything to do directly with Greg's, Mrs Hudson's, and Victor's kidnappings. And anyway, the clues that Sherlock had received back then had come in via text messages. But how did it all fit together if the letters were from Sherlock after all?

Had Moriarty known about them? Or about the fact that Sherlock had been read to from the Brothers Grimm's fairy tales as a child? Had he played a sick game to remind Sherlock of these letters? Or of their recipient?

None of it made any sense. Maybe the big yellow book of fairy tales could give him some clue that would help him make some progress. A glance at the clock told John that it was almost four in the morning. He didn't know whether Mrs Hudson had kept the book of fairy tales that had been left when she was kidnapped by Moriarty, or whether it had passed into the possession of New Scotland Yard. He decided he'd ask her as soon as she was awake.

With mixed feelings, John read another letter:

_Dear W.,_

_"Mandje! Mandje! Timpe Tee!_  
_Flounder, flounder, in the sea!"_  
_Little Mikey, brother mine,_  
_is acting like a horrid swine..._

_Watch out that you don't end up like him..._

_SH_

What the hell was that supposed to mean? John couldn't match the rhyme to any fairy tale either. But here at least there appeared to be an obvious mention of Mycroft. Or some Mike. Was there a connection between 'W' and Mycroft? What was Sherlock warning them about ? What had Mycroft done? If only there were a date on the letters...

Frustrated, John went into the bedroom and got his phone. It only took a few seconds for him to compose and send a message to Mycroft, not concerned about whether he was going to wake him with it.

_We need to talk. – JW_

Indeed, not many minutes passed before Mycroft responded. A flash of guilt arose in John's gut. He ignored it without any further comment and read the message:

_I agree. I wanted to drop by later on today, but as you're already up, we can move the meeting forward. A car will pick you up in half an hour. – MH_

John pursed his lips and set the phone aside. He picked up his tea, drained the cup, and put it into the sink. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a jumper, cleaned his teeth, and washed his face. The man reflected in the mirror looked like he was suffering from extreme exhaustion, but this was definitely not the time to think of sleep.

Before he returned the letters to the corresponding envelopes, John took a picture of each one and sent them to his laptop. Acting on a sudden impulse, he further backed the data up on a USB stick that he fixed to the bottom of the nightstand in his bedroom with a piece of sellotape.

Precisely half an hour after he'd received Mycroft's text, a black town car pulled up outside of 221B. John snorted, grimaced, and got into the back seat. The driver nodded at him in the rear-view mirror but didn't make a sound; John likewise refrained from a start-of-the-day salutation. It wasn't the first time John had been picked up by Mycroft's henchmen, which meant his level of nervousness was contained.

John had distributed the twelve letters between his two jacket pockets. He ran his thumb over the edges that were sticking out, as if to reassure himself that the envelopes were all still there. John assumed he would be brought to Mycroft's residence, but apparently even after knowing each other for over two years, the civil servant wasn't willing to reveal his homestead to John.

They stopped outside the Diogenes Club. The driver got out with John and opened the black door of the gentlemen's club for him. At least Mycroft didn't seem to have woken up any other employees in order to arrange this meeting. After the driver had escorted John to Mycroft's office, knocked, and opened the door, he tapped the visor of his cap and left John standing there.

"Good morning, Dr Watson."

Frowning, John entered the weakly illuminated room. He wasn't surprised to find Mycroft sitting in his usual three-piece suit behind his desk, his posture impeccable, no trace of fatigue on his face despite the fact that the sun wouldn't be up for another couple of hours.

John squared his shoulders and strode toward him. Not waiting for an explicit invitation from Mycroft, John drew out one of the chairs which stood in front of the desk and sat down, placed his hands on his knees, and gave the other man an intent look.

Mycroft looked him over with a calculating air. John would have missed the twitch at the corner of his mouth if he'd so much as blinked.

"Did you enjoy your outing to Brighton?"

Ah. Of course. That was the reason Mycroft had wanted to see him. John cleared his throat before answering. He found it difficult to hold back the grin that always popped up whenever Mycroft tried to intimidate him with the fact that he didn't miss anything.

"Charming area," John answered dryly and leaned back in his chair, quite pleased with himself. "It was a pleasure to finally meet Mr and Mrs Holmes, seeing as they didn't come to Sherlock's funeral."

John caught the dark look Mycroft threw at him; on the other hand, Mycroft hadn't tried to hide it very well. Maybe he was more tired than he appeared after all.

"If you're planning another visit, please do have the courtesy to ring ahead, John. Mummy was understandably upset that she wasn't able to prepare better for your arrival. She does so like to play hostess." Although the words were casual, the acerbity in Mycroft's tone was unmistakable. A subliminal warning that he wouldn't condone his parents being harassed.

"Oh, she managed to bake some excellent biscuits before we got there," John retorted. Maybe there was nothing unusual about Mrs Holmes baking on a weekend. But why should she do so if she turned around and forbade her husband to have any? On the other hand, she had said she was expecting a guest anyway. Whether any of that was true or not, John couldn't say.

"Don't try to deduce her. It's wasted effort. Mummy's behaviour is based solely on sentiment, and as such is terribly unpredictable," Mycroft lamented, grasping his creased forehead as if the mere fact made his life unbearably complicated. He straightened again momentarily and smoothed out his expression as soon as he became aware of his slip-up. A smile crept onto John's lips after all.

"What did you wish to speak to me about at this ungodly hour, John?"

"Well," John said, taking the envelopes out of his pockets and laying them out in two piles next to each other on the desk. He gave Mycroft a challenging look. "I found these mixed in with Sherlock's things, and I'd like to know what you make of it."

Mycroft solemnly reached for one of the envelopes, examined the outside, and finally extracted the letter. John studied his face as his eyes darted over the minimal text. The only reaction was the lifting of one traitorous eyebrow; otherwise Mycroft's expression remained as stiff as ever. When he raised his chin and met John's gaze, his face was completely blank.

"What do _you_ think?"

John barked out a joyless laugh. Was this a test? Did Mycroft want to see how much John suspected, or how much he had learned from Sherlock in the two years they'd worked together? Or was he simply trying to find out how much additional information he would have to reveal in order to satisfy John's curiosity?

"The letters seem to be pretty old. At least the paper's not new, or maybe it was already old when they were written. They were done on an old-fashioned typewriter, although that doesn't mean they were written before computers became popular. There's no date on any of the letters, which makes me think someone didn't want a date assigned to them. Sherlock signed them with his initials but never sent them. I don't know who 'W' might be... and... well." John opened another letter and slid it across the table so that Mycroft could read it. "They all seem to refer to fairy tales, although I'm really no expert."

"Is that all?" Mycroft inquired coolly. Resentment flared in John. Was Mycroft making fun of him?

He pressed his lips together into a thin line and swallowed down his anger. "There are references to you in a couple of the letters. Sherlock was angry at you and wanted to warn this 'W' about you." John watched as Mycroft read one letter after another, laid them out on the table next to each other, skimmed them again, and re-sorted them until he seemed to be satisfied with their order.

"Moriarty used fairy tales to construct riddles for Sherlock," John added carefully, this time securing Mycroft's attention. His ice-blue eyes bored into John, causing goose pimples to break out across the back of John's neck and making him shiver.

"Do you see any connection to Moriarty?"

"Other than the fairy tales? Not really. And even that... well, it doesn't make sense, since Sherlock hasn't known Moriarty that long. The only thing I know is that this letter—" John pointed at the first one, the one he'd found together with Victor. "—must have been written when Sherlock was at university. Victor Trevor recognised it and said he'd rowed with Sherlock because of it."

Mycroft's only comment on that remark was a twitch of his eyebrows. He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers over his stomach.

"Sometimes you're really quite slow, Dr Watson."

John frowned in displeasure, glaring daggers at Mycroft. It took a concerted effort for him to hold back the cutting retort that burned on the tip of his tongue, but he was fairly certain he wouldn't get anywhere with an attack on this man.

"You just visited my family yesterday and received information that should have already provided you the solution to this little conundrum. What would the sense have been in keeping these letters rather than mailing them? No, they definitely reached their destination: Sherlock wasn't the sender, he was the recipient."

"But..." John's eyes grew wide. _Oh_. Of course. "William Sherlock Scott... Holmes... Sherlock is 'W'."

John exhaled the air from his lungs heavily. If Sherlock was 'W', then who was SH? The answer was obvious: it could only be Sherrinford Holmes. SH. The line "Little Mikey, brother mine" from one of the letters made that pretty clear.

"Sherrinford was the only one who called Sherlock by the name of William," Mycroft explained shortly.

John rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He scrubbed his hands across his forehead, his eyes, down to his mouth, as his gaze darted back and forth between Mycroft and the sheet on the table.

"Did you know about these letters?" he finally asked, but Mycroft shook his head.

"No, Sherlock didn't say anything about them, and quite obviously they weren't sent via the usual postal channels. Not that I was watching all of his correspondence, but I wouldn't have missed such an unusual envelope."

John sat up dubiously and drew his eyebrows together. "Your mother mentioned that Sherlock and Sherrinford had argued shortly before Sherrinford died. Is it possible these letters had something to do with that? Can you assign any dates to them?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes peevishly, as if he wasn't at all pleased that John would ask such an obvious question. Or maybe he disliked the fact that Mrs Holmes had spoken of the argument and the accident.

"We didn't spend much time together back then. Sherlock, Sherrinford, and I. We generally only saw each other on holidays at our parents' house, or during semester breaks when time allowed. There was always... _something_ … between Sherlock and Sherrinford that I couldn't grasp. They had a friendly relationship, if not particularly close, before Sherrinford and I started to work in the same department."

"Oh. So... he also had a minor government position?" John asked, making air quotes around the latter words.

"Well... no, he was more specialised in foreign affairs. This information is strictly confidential, John. Under no circumstances are you to pass it on."

"Of course..." John agreed, listening attentively.

"Sherrinford worked for MI6, and was killed during a mission. It wasn't an automobile accident; it was an exchange of gunfire."

"Oh... that's... I'm sorry." John pulled his lower lip in between his teeth pensively and chewed on it. He secretly wondered whether Mr and Mrs Holmes knew of the actual circumstances of their son's death, or whether the information had been withheld from them. He wasn't sure what the code of conduct of the British Secret Service proscribed in cases like that.

If not, it must be incredibly difficult for Mycroft to have lied to his family for so many years, simply in order to maintain secrecy. But who knew what might come to light if the connection between Sherrinford and MI6 became public knowledge. People like Moriarty were able to extract valuable clues from every ounce of information, no matter how insignificant it might seem.

"I'm fairly certain I know when these letters were written," Mycroft said, directing John's attention once more to the documents. "The Frog Prince—" Mycroft held the first letter aloft. "—refers to Mr Trevor. Sherlock was very confused at the time, and the relationship had taken a worrying turn."

"The drugs."

"Amongst other things. Sherlock quit attending classes after Mr Trevor had been in the States for some time. He was expelled. I was able to convince him to try it again elsewhere, but the attempt was unsuccessful. After two more transfers, Sherlock gave up and turned his back on higher education altogether. He moved in with Mr Trevor for a while, but when he returned to Harvard to complete his degree, Sherlock went further and further off the rails. It was nearly impossible to get his drug consumption under control. When he eventually rowed with Sherrinford, Sherlock overdosed and nearly died."

John swallowed hard upon hearing those words and looked down at his hands morosely.

Mycroft picked up the second letter and held it up so that John could read the text. "'The Fisherman and His Wife' must refer to that time period," Mycroft said and put the page back down. "I committed a grave error at the time, for which I can never forgive myself." Mycroft stared off into the distance while his hand curled into a fist on the table.

"What... was the argument about?" John asked cautiously, managing to focus Mycroft's attention on him again and not letting him wallow in his own memories. Mycroft hesitated as if he weren't sure whether what he was about to say was wise, but finally nodded sharply and continued.

"Sherrinford killed Redbeard."

" _Wha...?!_ Why in the world would he do something like that to his little brother?" Incredulity and naked rage distorted John's face. The happy images of a young Sherlock with his beloved Irish Setter were too fresh in his memory. Why should anyone want to destroy that happiness? "Mrs Holmes said that several pets in the neighbourhood had been poisoned or beaten to death... Was that... also Sherrinford?"

John stared breathlessly at Mycroft until he gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Oh my God..." John broke off and rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to collect himself. "She... she also said that the responsible party had been caught."

"They got the wrong person. Sherrinford had a watertight alibi and left behind numerous clues proving the other boy's guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt. I didn't get to the bottom of it until months later, and..."

"You knew about it and didn't say anything?!"

Mycroft snapped his mouth shut and gave John a hard look. But his demeanour seemed to have more of a rueful cast to it than reproach at the interruption. He eventually nodded and averted his eyes, abashed.

"I went back and forth with myself on whether to tell anyone about it, but finally decided not to. I did speak with Sherrinford about it, but he maintained it had just been a phase. He said he hadn't intended to kill Redbeard, but when he saw how much damage he had caused, he got the message and developed a guilty conscience. He did stop doing it, but I could never be entirely certain whether he truly regretted what he'd done, or whether the fact that a guilty party had been found held him back; after all, a fresh wave of dead animals would have undoubtedly led to further questions."

"I don't understand why you didn't tell your parents. It's obvious something was wrong with Sherrinford," John exclaimed abruptly. He was shaking with anger at the injustice of it all. Sherlock must have suffered terribly from the loss. And not only him: the boy who had had to bear the consequences in his place had ended up anything but unscathed.

"I couldn't. I couldn't do that to Sherlock. I couldn't tell him that his own brother had killed his dog. It would have driven a wedge between them back then. How could I have borne that responsibility? We were just children, adolescents," Mycroft said, running his long fingers through his thinning hair. He still seemed to be deeply shaken by the affair: John had never seen the civil servant so emotional.

"And then he told Sherlock himself a couple of years later, and Sherlock overdosed," John declared flatly. His heart seemed to be beating inside an empty space. The two blows coming so close together shattered against the inner walls of his body and echoed in the emptiness.

"Yes. Instead of directing his hatred toward Sherrinford, he turned it inward against himself. Sherrinford extricated himself neatly from the scandal by not only confessing but also telling Sherlock that I had known all about it."

"Fuck..." John swore softly and buried his face in his hands.

"Now you know why he never truly trusted me. But after the overdose, I had no choice. I needed to take certain measures – against his will, if necessary. That didn't exactly strengthen our relationship," Mycroft explained, still unwilling to meet John's eye.

John swallowed hard. "And... those measures..?"

"He landed in rehab for a short time, but he ran away during the first few weeks and flew to America. Expecting that he would seek out Mr Trevor, I contacted him, but Sherlock never arrived at his address. Instead, he went to Florida, where he met Mrs Hudson. You know that story. Sherlock made sure her husband was sentenced to death after having cheated on and abused her in a most heinous manner for years. I strongly suspect that these three letters related to Sherlock's escape," Mycroft elucidated, letting his hand hover over the next three documents on the table.

"Sherlock had never spent an extended period of time abroad before. The tale of 'The Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was' fits in with that period the best, in my opinion."

_Dear W.,_

_Gone forth to learn what fear is?_

_Or fleeing the shadows of the past? Do you still hear voices in the dark?_

_SH_

"Two things appear to be directly referenced here. First, the loss of Redbeard and the associated lies in the form of the shadows of the past. And second, the voices in the dark, which might be a nod to the nightmares Sherlock frequently experienced as a child," Mycroft analysed, as if he were reading the tarot.

"It might also refer to his mutism," John suggested, biting the inside of his cheek when he registered the surprise on Mycroft's face. It was a strange sight. Apparently Mrs Holmes hadn't told him that she'd revealed that detail.

"Ah. Yes..." Mycroft fell silent for a long moment. John would have liked nothing better than to know what was going on inside his head, but he waited patiently for a possible explanation for the rest of the letters. When Mycroft returned to the present, he gave John a speculative look. "Sherlock was always the more sensitive one amongst us," he said, and John didn't know whether that was a criticism or simply a fact. Mrs Holmes had said much the same thing the other day.

"It was the first time he had control over the fate of another human life. Even though he liked Mrs Hudson, it must have been difficult for him to make that final decision. In the end, his sense of justice won out, and made him to the world's only consulting detective. He assumed great responsibility even back then in order to protect people who couldn't do it themselves... Sherrinford recognised that."

_Dear W.,_

_The decision is always yours to make!_  
_The good ones in the pot,_  
_The bad ones in the crop,_  
_But pride goeth before a fall!_

_SH_

"He clearly had a differing opinion, and warned Sherlock in the next letter that his deeds wouldn't only be seen in a positive light. Because he was different. Because he didn't fit into society, and often didn't understand it. You know how clumsy he often was in that regard."

_Dear W.,_

_"Cock-a-doodle-do_  
_The golden girl has come home too."_  
_No matter how many good deeds you do – they'll never accept you the way you are._

_SH_

John read the three letters again, mulling over their contents. It looked like Sherrinford had sent his younger brother letters like this repeatedly, giving him deprecatory messages. The negative tone was undeniable. The question was: why? What possible advantage had Sherrinford seen in torturing Sherlock in this manner for years on end? In keeping him down?

And what did Moriarty have to do with it?

 

+++

tbc

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SwissMiss did a really amazing job in translating the fairy-tale parts in this chapter! Kudos!! :)
> 
> FYI: <http://www.grimmstories.com/de/grimm_maerchen/index> (there seems to be an English version of that website as well)
> 
> Mycroft's ordering of the letters:
> 
> The Frog Prince  
> The Fisherman and His Wife  
> The Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was  
> Cinderella  
> Mother Hulda  
> The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs


	26. Friday, 21.12.2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

It was raining when John exited the hospital on the Friday before Christmas. He sighed loudly at the sight of the wet streets. Unfortunately, he didn't have an umbrella with him, and the nearest underground station was several minutes away on foot. He thought about treating himself to a taxi for one long moment, but decided against it in the end and strode resolutely through the opaque curtain of water. It took less than five minutes before he was soaked through.

Chastising himself, John clenched his fingers around the handle of his leather bag. It probably wouldn't have been the worst idea to have it waterproofed before the start of winter in order to protect it from water stains. It was already too late to stick it under his jacket. John hastened his steps grouchily, hurrying down the stairs at the station and onto the platform.

The monitor informed him that the next train was delayed due to a technical defect. The more people who gathered around him, the more restless John became. His eyes darted over the crowd of figures, vigilantly studying their expressions. A strong sense of panic began to stir in his gut, and his stomach twisted into knots. Feeling anxious, John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He simply wasn't used to so many people anymore.

He concentrated on the motion of his ribcage and reflected on the past week.  The fitness session on Wednesday had been the last one before the holidays. It still hadn't got any more interesting, but at least it distracted him for a couple of hours. Mary had done a few exercises with him, since she and John had similar levels of training, even if John's knowledge of taekwondo was still limited. He compensated for his deficits with his other skills, even though they earned him an occasional scolding from Nigel, who didn't want to see any mixed martial arts fighting in his club.

Mary seemed to care as little about that as John did. Whenever the two of them had the opportunity, they carried out a short match. Since she and John were almost equal in size and speed, it always developed into an exciting exchange of blows, during which one of John's rare smiles would steal onto his lips.

Following the session, Mary had asked John again whether he wanted to have a drink with her. She always sounded quite offhand about it, as if it weren't a date but rather just a casual get-together between friends. John had made his excuses, saying he had another appointments, but promised to take a rain check on it for another time. Mary had simply smiled and winked at him before leaving the gym.

The train arrived, and John opened his eyes. He watched in horror as the mass of people shoved their way into the carriages, and stepped aside to let the jostling swarm pass by. He didn't have any great desire to feel like a sardine in a tin, so he hung back on the platform and waited for the next train. His wet clothing was cold and chafed unpleasantly against his skin. Drops of water dripped from the ends of his hair and rolled down his face and the back of his neck, disappearing under his collar. A hot shower and a nice cup of tea were all he wanted right now.

Just then, John noticed the billboard directly in front of him, which he had studiously avoided looking at until then. It showed a futuristic stereo sound system, which could be purchased for a horrendous price. A red-cheeked Father Christmas promised that it was the perfect gift for any music lover, and that it came with an _incredible_ forty-eight month warranty.

Christmas. The festival of love and family. John scoffed disparagingly. It would simply be a day like any other. Mrs Hudson had gone to her sister's two days ago in order to spend the holidays there, and John wasn't sure when she'd be back. He hadn't heard from Harry since Sherlock's funeral. Along with birthdays, Christmas was one of the few holidays they had contact with each other, although even that rarely went beyond a short text.

When John finally boarded the train, he asked himself what Victor might be doing in the next few days. Since his family lived in Manchester, it was likely he'd be travelling there. On the other hand, John knew that Victor didn't get on particularly well with his relatives, and he might refrain from a visit. John smiled and shook his head at the idea of spending Christmas with Victor. It wasn't precisely an unpleasant notion, but it was still ridiculous, somehow. There was also a serious risk of Victor wanting to drag him to some party or other where there would most likely be scantily clad dancers with Santa hats.

John chuckled softly at the image and grasped his forehead in his hand. No, it was definitely not a good idea following that night at Deep Purple. John had finally managed to tone down his alcohol intake somewhat. The doctor in him had piped up and reminded him of the negative effects of drinking on his health should it spin out of control. It wasn't exactly easy for John to forego a glass of whisky when his mood was low and he got lost in memories of Sherlock, but it was getting better one day at a time. Or at least that's what he told himself.

Heeding a spontaneous impulse, John took his phone out of his trouser pocket and composed a text to Victor.

_Are you visiting your parents over Christmas? – JW_

John stared at the screen for a while, waiting for an answer, but when none came even after several seconds, he stuck his phone back into his pocket.

 

******

 

_I need to work. – Vic_

Victor's reply didn't arrive until long after midnight. Equipped with a bag of peanuts and a couple of fizzy drinks, John had settled in front of the telly to watch a double episode of a police procedural, but had fallen asleep where he was sitting in the middle of the second part.

The incoming message signal from his phone startled him awake. Still half-asleep, John read the few brief words and yawned extravagantly. He lay down on the couch and blinked against the light from the phone screen.

_On Christmas? – JW_

_Still up? What are you doing? – Vic_

_Avoiding my question? Nothing special. TV. Fell asleep on the couch. – JW_

Several minutes passed, but once again, there was no response from Victor. John sat up with a sigh and drank a sip of the overly sugary fizzy drink.

_Where are you? – JW_

John watched his phone until the screen automatically darkened, then put the device down on the coffee table and reached for the remote control to change the channel. He stopped at the late news. Without batting an eyelash, the announcer reported that six people had been killed in a fire in a block of flats in Lambeth. There were also numerous victims suffering from severe smoke inhalation who had been brought to a local hospital. The cause was still unclear. Then the weather came on.

John turned off the television, picked up his phone, and went to the bedroom. He put the phone down on the nightstand, undressed, and slipped into his pyjama trousers before going into the bathroom to relieve himself and clean his teeth. By the time he was finally lying in bed, there had still been no answer. Frowning, John put the phone down next to his pillow and switched off the light.

It was Friday. The likelihood that Victor was out painting the town red was extraordinarily high. He'd probably pulled too. John turned onto his side. His eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark yet, so he could barely make out the outline of his phone.

Ridiculous.

John huffed and rolled over onto his other side and let his eyelids fall shut.

Maybe Nick was with him. Maybe they were on their way back to Victor's place together to have sex. Or maybe they'd disappeared into the back rooms of Deep Purple, swallowed up by the violet twilight, and were doing it there.

John reached for his pillow with a growl and pressed it down over his face. It was none of his business. Victor could have sex with whomever he pleased. Someone like him wouldn't refrain from sating his lust for long. He certainly wouldn't wait six months or longer to find a distraction. To be honest, John knew full well that Victor hadn't waited that long. He had no reason to. Not like John, who felt ill at the mere thought of entering into a new relationship.

But Victor didn't do relationships at all. He was free, and yet he'd still been left with a broken heart. John ran through in his head once more what Victor had said on the train. The story of how he'd fallen in love with Sherlock, how he'd manipulated a lecturer for Sherlock and ended up suffering the consequences himself. In more than one way.

John still couldn't fathom why Victor had allowed the threesome with Ryan Walters to go on, even though he said he could have ended the scene at any time. Why he'd allowed himself to be hurt to protect someone else from pain, rather than to seek an alternative. Even with Victor's tendency towards egotism, that kind of behaviour verged on martyrdom.

Had that been what had doomed Victor and Sherlock's relationship to fail from the start? Had it triggered feelings of guilt in Sherlock? Or had Sherlock maybe even unconsciously reinforced Victor's impulse to protect him? Question upon question, none of which John would ever receive an answer to.

A buzzing sounded through the mattress when the vibrate signal went off in his phone. John promptly turned over and reached for the device.

_Out – Vic_

Just as he'd thought. John rolled his eyes.

_Aha – JW_

_Jealous? – Vic_

_Why should I be jealous? – JW_

Ha! John threw himself onto his back indignantly and banged at the screen with his thumbs. But as quickly as his anger had flared up, it disappeared just as fast. After all, Victor wasn't completely wrong. The loneliness was driving John insane, and the incident in Deep Purple would certainly never have happened if he'd had someone with him. If he'd had Sherlock with him.

_Take care of yourself, ok? – JW_

_Relax, doc! It wouldn't hurt for you to – Vic_

??? – JW

_For me to WHAT? Last time didn't exactly end well, if you recall! – JW_

John glared at his phone, annoyed, and waited for the next message.

_Yeah... maybe not DP... not your style. But the bird from the gym? She fancies you – Vic_

What the...?! Was Victor actually trying to set John up? He didn't even know Mary! How should he know whether she was the right one for John? How was he supposed to know whether there would ever be anyone who was right for John? John felt more and more anger welling up inside him. He wasn't going to continue this conversation. The risk of his phone shattering against the wall in the next few seconds was simply too great.

_Good night, Victor – JW_

_Ask her out – Vic_

_Fuck you! – JW_

John angrily shut off his phone and slammed it down on the nightstand. Enough was enough. If there was something John didn't need, it was relationship tips from a certain Victor Trevor.

 

******

 

Christmas passed by completely uneventfully, as expected. John bought himself some takeout from the Chinese place on the corner and ate it in front of the television. It was eerily quiet inside the flat.

The obligatory 'Happy Christmas' texts arrived in the course of the day from Harry, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Victor, Mike, and Sarah. John didn't write any replies, and let all incoming calls go unanswered.

Instead, he sent a 'Happy Christmas' to a number that had been disconnected for months and drank a glass of whisky when the expected error message arrived.

 

******

 

John got a call from Mary a few days later. When he asked where she'd got his number from, she giggled and confessed she'd snooped in the club's files.

Normally, such an invasion of his privacy would have stuck in John's craw, but the loneliness of the past few days had him laughing with amusement.

"So... will you finally have coffee with me?" Mary asked, and John could have sworn the invitation was extended in a lascivious purr.

"You're rather persistent."

"And you're rather shy! Come on, John, man up. If you hadn't wanted to, you would have turned me down flat a long time ago instead of letting me continue schmoozing you. Hm? What do you say?"

John bit his lip, not sure what to make of the whole thing. It was almost as if Mary and Victor were in cahoots to talk John into a date. Clearing his head for a couple of hours and having a friendly chat wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Especially when there was a pretty young woman volunteering so willingly.

"Well... fine. But in that case I'd like to take you to dinner. To make up for everything, so to speak. Do you have anything planned for New Year's Eve?" John asked, scratching the back of his head. It had definitely been too long since he'd last done something like this.

"Mm-hm, as it so happens I have a date with a doctor," Mary said in a sultry voice. "And if I'm lucky, I'll still get my coffee on New Year's morning."

John rang off, embarrassed. Subtlety was clearly not Mary's forte.

 

******

 

John started off the last day of the year with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He put it down to anxiety about the date, and tried to ignore it.

After a Spartan breakfast consisting of a slice of toast with a dab of honey and a cup of black tea, John tidied up the flat, did the washing-up, cleaned the bathroom, and made the bed with fresh sheets. Whether he and Mary ended up here or not, John was prepared for any eventuality. It felt rather strange.

Afterwards, he had a long bath, shaved carefully, and thought about what he should wear that evening. He decided on jeans and a white shirt, intending to complete the outfit with a dark grey blazer and blue tie. Together with the dark-brown leather loafers, he would look both fashionable and casual. For the time being, however, he made do with a t-shirt and a warm jumper in place of the jacket.

The temperatures had sunk dramatically overnight, and he was cold. He was right in the middle of making himself a pot of tea when his phone rang. His sister's name appeared on the screen. It was unusual for Harry to ring on New Year's Eve. That normally didn't happen until New Year's Day – if at all. He'd had to speak to a drunk Harry often enough in the first few hours of a new year. She wasn't already getting into the swing of things now, was she?

"Harry?"

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you're gay?!"

John pulled the phone away from his ear and studied the screen, his eyebrows drawn together. Yes, it was really Harry, but her words weren't making any sense.

"I'm not..."

"John! Damn it! I knew you were good friends with Sherlock, but not that you and he were an item... You should have told me! Do you trust your own sister – your _lesbian_ sister! – so little that you wouldn't tell me something like that? I thought you'd lost your best friend, which is bloody bad enough, but not your lover! John?!"

The room was spinning. What the hell was going on here?

"John?! Say something!"

"What... are you talking about..." John stammered.

"Are you kidding? It's all over the papers!"

Before John could so much as formulate a coherent thought, he'd hung up, put on his jacket, and run down the stairs to the ground floor. Ashen, he walked to the nearest news agent, a short way down the street on the opposite side. A plexiglass tabloid display stand was set up outside the shop, and in it was that day's front page.

It showed Sherlock's face. One of the most well-known photographs of him. Deerstalker and creased brow. Collar flipped up. On top of that another picture banner-style of Sherlock that John wasn't familiar with. It must have been taken several years ago. His dark brown hair was tousled, his silver-blue eyes sparkling invitingly, even on the coarse newsprint. A lascivious smile played at the corners of his plump lips. _University_ – the word shot through John's head even as the headline bored into his retinas.

**Sex, Drugs & Deductions: The Truth About the World's Only Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes! – by Kitty Riley**

The newspaper rustled in John's hands when he took it off the stack. He couldn't take his eyes off it. Somehow, his feet had taken him inside the shop without him being aware of it. John was shaking when he turned to the main article on page two.

"You've got to buy it if you want to read it, aye?!"

John absently fished a couple of coins out of his trouser pocket and dropped them onto the counter without taking his eyes off of Sherlock's face.

"Hey, your change!"

As if in a trance, John walked the few metres back to 221B, nearly causing a rear-end collision on Baker Street. As soon as he stepped into the living room, his legs finally gave out and he dropped to his knees. He spread the newspaper out so that he could view all of the pages of text and pictures.

He must have stopped breathing at some point, because it wasn't until he felt a sharp pain in his throat and his heartbeat thrumming throughout his body that he gasped in an audible breath. He filled his lungs greedily, as if he'd surfaced out of deep waters. It had to be water, because it was running down his face, dripping off his chin onto the newspaper, making the pages ripple.

The smell of printer's ink filled his nose when he curled up on the floor, trying to find something to hold on to, and started to sob.

 

+++

tbc

 

 


	27. Monday, 31.12.2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I completely forgot to post the new chapter yesterday ><

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

It was impossible to say how long John lay curled up in the middle of 221B's living room. At some point, the tears had dried up and sheer exhaustion had taken over his body. He sat up, sniffling, and blinked at the spread-out tabloid pages again.

_Sex, Drugs & Deductions_

What an idiotic title. More and more anger burbled through him, ruthlessly shoving the despair aside. The reporter, Kitty Riley, had written an exclusive that went beyond anything that had been published about Sherlock Holmes before. Not only did it mention and analyse several of his cases – obviously sourced from John's former blog and various interviews – but his personal life as well. In lurid detail.

Half a page was dedicated to the relationship between Sherlock and John.

_John Watson, blogger and boyfriend (confirmed by several sources) of the great Sherlock Holmes, won the heart of the Consulting Detective. The relationship must have just got off the ground when Holmes fell into the Thames, leaving behind a broken man. Watson was said to no longer be able to handle his job as a physician, and was placed on administrative leave after attacking a patient. (Interview on p. 4!)_

_The loss of his lover was the tragic end to a sad romance in which Watson realised too late that he was gay. A series of ex-girlfriends confirm that they had suspicions but were always assured that Watson was definitely "not gay"._

And it went on in that vein. Various details from Sherlock and John's relationship were revealed. Details that John had never told anyone about. In particular, things that could only have come from Sherlock's mouth. How long he'd been in love with John, how small he'd reckoned his chances to be of getting together with John, and how desperately he'd tried to find something to distract himself with. Mention was made not only of drugs, but also sexual congress with a series of anonymous men, not least the on-again/off-again relationship with Sherlock's old college pal, Victor Trevor.

There was also half a page dedicated to Victor. It spoke of going to clubs together, drug binges, and now and then a little erotic game that included, for example, "pretending to be John Watson in order to fulfil Holmes' fantasies".

John was quivering with rage when he read the details. He remembered quite well finding Sherlock the morning after. Apathetic and barely coherent, his head cushioned on John's grey jumper, unwilling to speak about the events of the previous night. The broken cylinders and Petri dishes in the kitchen, shards of glass everywhere. It all made sense now.

The numerous quotes from Victor indicated quite clearly that he must have sold his story, including his history with Sherlock, to the paper. Victor, of all people! One of the only two people who had loved Sherlock unconditionally, and here he was laying Sherlock bare and sullying his image so that nothing further would remain of him but scandals, stunts, and a reputation in ruins. It negated all of the work Sherlock had done, never mind that his achievements had been swept further and further under the carpet in the months following his death.

Kitty Riley did touch on a couple of those cases, but that seemed more to serve the purpose of reminding the reader of the fast-paced world of Sherlock's one-sided existence. Phenomena like the world's only Consulting Detective were transient when there was no more news to spread about them. And this here was new. New and exciting for the gossip-hungry readers who didn't waste a single thought on whether any of it was true.

John angrily slammed his fist onto the floor. Pain flashed through his hand, but he welcomed it as it distracted him a bit from the tightness in his chest. Grinding his teeth, he took his phone out of his trouser pocket and selected Victor's number from the contact list.

"Come on," John muttered with annoyance, haphazardly folding up the newspaper with his free hand. The sound of the phone ringing on the other end buzzed in his ear, echoing off the inner surface of his skull as if to mock him. But there was no answer.

John swore and stood up, hurled the newspaper onto the desk, and shoved his phone back into his pocket. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his face. While he was drying it, his phone pinged inside his pocket. Mrs Hudson. John refused the call and glared darkly at himself in the mirror. This could not be happening!

John stomped resolutely into the living room and turned on the television but didn't sit down. He was too upset for that. His stomach cramped up again when he flipped to a news programme that was tearing into the same topic as the tabloid like sharks with chum, picking it apart in all its sordid details.

Another call came in on his phone, but it wasn't Victor this time either: it was Greg. John scoffed and refused that call too, then entered Victor's number again. The line was free. John let it ring for three entire minutes before giving up and growling in frustration.

How dare Victor avoid him now, given the situation?! To let John hang after doing the greatest possible amount of damage and discrediting Sherlock the way he had?

No; no. John wasn't going to take this lying down. He was going to confront Victor and demand an explanation. He wasn't going to let it go until he found out what Victor had got out of completely destroying what was left of the shambles of John's life.

Tense and shaking with fury, John grabbed the newspaper and left the flat to head for Victor's.

 

******

 

_Please answer the phone John!_

_Best friend, don't make me laugh! I knew right away something was going on between you two!_

_John, what's this awful article in the paper? What does it mean?_

_Oh God, are all those rumours about Sherlock true???_

John ignored the flood of messages coming in on his phone. He played with the thought of turning it off completely several times, but since he was still waiting for a response from Victor, he grudgingly put up with the constant buzzing and beeping from incoming calls and texts. The passengers on the Circle Line gave him dirty looks, but John studiously ignored them as well.

Instead, he stared off into the distance, on the verge of losing his mind. The simmering anger just a drop away from boiling over; he wasn't at all sure what would happen if it did.

He went into the building where Victor lived, dashed up the stairs in a flash, and hammered on the door with his fist. With his other hand, he rang up a storm on the doorbell, but nothing stirred, even after several minutes. Victor had apparently abandoned the sinking ship. Exhausted, John rested his lower arms against the door and let his head hang between his shoulders, breathing hard. The air escaped his lungs in frantic breaths, his heart galloped in his chest.

All of a sudden, he felt indescribably tired. He turned around and slid down the door into a crouch. He grasped a handful of his short blond hair, dug his fingers into his scalp, and clenched his teeth so hard that it hurt.

More than half an hour passed before John had calmed down enough to stand up again and head back. Rather than taking the Underground, he decided to walk in order to dispel some of the negative energy and clear his head. He detoured into Regent's Park as soon as he could, wandering aimlessly. Everywhere he went, he saw people who had already started celebrating the end of the year. They didn't take any notice of John's hunched-over figure as they laughed, danced, and embraced each other.

John checked his phone a couple of times. He'd set it to silent after all, and he wanted to see whether Victor had taken pity on him yet. But that was not the case. John sighed in resignation and headed for Baker Street.

Once back in the flat, he took the whisky out of the bag which he'd bought on the way, unscrewed the lid, and drank directly from the bottle. The alcohol burned going down his throat, but it only took a few seconds for it to drive off the cold that had taken up residence in his stomach over the course of the day. Bottle in hand, John went over to the living room and sank down into his armchair, took out his phone, and set it down on the little side table without turning the sound back on. He kicked his shoes off, took another drink, and closed his eyes, unwilling to look at the world's ugly countenance any longer.

 

******

 

When the doorbell rang that evening, John struggled his way out of his chair. He staggered out of the flat and down the stairs on unsteady feet. He felt dizzy and his head was pounding. It wasn't until he was halfway down that he realised he was holding the bottle of whisky in his hand. He took a big sip and twisted the knob to open the door without giving it another thought.

Mary stood outside, dressed up in a close-fitting beige dress with her hair pinned up. She was looking out at the street but at the sound of the door opening, she turned around smiling, only to freeze a moment later.

"John... oh, John." An obvious expression of concern appeared on her face.

"Oh... you. I've... shit..." John swore and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd completely forgot about Mary.

"I waited for you, but..."

"I'm... sorry, Mary. I should have let you know. I-I... can't go out with you … tonight. Damn it... I should never have said yes in the first place." Unable to face Mary's disappointment, John avoided her eyes and focused on a spot across the street. He ignored for the moment the fact that Mary had clearly found out not only his phone number, but also his address.

He flinched hard when Mary touched his arm, requesting that he look at her. She gave him a friendly, almost fond look, and even smiled at him.

"After seeing that article, I didn't expect we'd meet tonight, John. Maybe I still had hope, but..." She shrugged. "I'm a realist." Whatever that meant. "I just wanted to see you at least. See if there were anything I could do to help. This must have been a horrible day for you."

"Yeah..." John agreed curtly, collapsing a little more into himself. He was so terribly dizzy. His grip on the bottle tightened, as if it would help keep him upright. He drank some more of the amber-coloured liquid and wiped his mouth. He'd already drained over half of the bottle.

"I think you should sit down," Mary said and came closer to John to manoeuvre him inside the house. "Come on, I'll help you."

"It's... fine," John declared, grabbing his forehead.

"John."

John froze at the sound of the familiar voice and turned toward the street. Victor was standing there, dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket. His unruly blond hair had been combed back off his forehead, leaving a single stubborn strand bouncing randomly up and down as if it didn't know where it belonged. He'd had it cut since the last time they'd seen each other. There was a cigarette between his lips. He took one last drag, exhaled the smoke, and flicked the butt away. The embers burst into several tiny sparks when they hit the pavement, then went out.

"I need to talk to you."

"Oh really?" John asked, his voice barely more than a low whisper. "You've done a bang-up job of avoiding it all day. Why now in particular?"

"I'll explain everything, but..." Victor made a vague gesture with his head in Mary's direction. She gave him a piercing look but didn't show any further reaction.

"I'd like to speak to John alone," Victor finally said in order to make his business crystal clear.

Mary grasped John's arm again and squeezed it gently. "John?"

John looked at her, exhaled the air from his lungs, and shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, Mary. I'll ring you, all right?"

The change in Mary's expression was immediately visible. Her unmistakable friendliness from before disappeared behind a frosty facade. She squared her shoulders, stepped out of the entryway onto the pavement, and straightened the lapels of her coat.

"If you say so. You'll know best what kind of people you want to associate with, John." Without gracing the men with another look, Mary strode down Baker Street and soon hailed a taxi, into which she disappeared.

John's eyes rested on Victor for a few seconds before he turned away without saying another word and went up the stairs to the first floor. The cool winter air had cleared his head a little, but he was still having obvious difficulty with fine motor coordination. He could tell by the sounds of the front door closing and the footfalls on the thin carpeting that Victor was following him. He was apparently keeping behind John on purpose in order to be able to catch him if John should lose his balance. Or else he wanted to minimise the probability of John grabbing him suddenly and beating him within an inch of his life. It was hard to say.

Victor closed the door to the flat while John dropped down into his armchair and lifted the bottle to his mouth. Victor took off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the couch.

"I think you've had enough..." he said and reached for the neck of the bottle, tearing it out of John's hand and ignoring John's bark of protest.

"You can smell your breath a mile away, John. What's all this in aid of? Do you want to drink yourself into a coma?" Victor asked archly, setting the bottle down on the desk with more force than necessary. He leaned back against the desk with his arms crossed in order to prevent John from retrieving the alcohol.

John leapt to his feet, spitting mad, and approached his uninvited guest with his index finger raised. "How dare you?! I can drink as much as I want to, got it? You've got no right to make rules for me!" John snapped. His head was pounding and he almost lost his balance. When Victor reached out to steady him, John tore himself away and shoved the other man away angrily.

"Don't touch me!"

"Calm down! I was just trying to help you!"

"Help?! Haven't you done enough already? Nothing can help me now, damn it!" John knew he was talking himself into a tantrum, but he couldn't hold back the words, couldn't stuff them back into the hole that had opened up in his soul.

"Why did you do it, Victor?! Why did you expose Sherlock like that?"

Victor lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture and took a single cautious step in John's direction.  "I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to. That Kitty Riley tricked me. I didn't know she was a reporter, otherwise I never would have told her all of that!"

"Why are you talking to a complete stranger about Sherlock anyway? About all the stuff from our personal life? Why? It's nobody's business!" The words collided with John's stuttered breaths, making him gasp for air. "Bloody shite!" He kicked the armchair, fuming with rage, hitting it so hard that it slid a few centimetres across the floor and ran into the side table.

"You should have left me there," Victor said flatly.

John whirled around, horrified, and gaped at him. "What?!"

"You shouldn't have attended to me, you should have gone to help Sherlock..." Victor paused when he noticed John's hands clenching into fists. The tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. The alcohol and anger circulating in John's blood were a dangerous combination. But Victor couldn't manage to keep his words to himself. The idea had nagged at him for too long and he was too frustrated at losing Sherlock. "You should have saved him, not me."

John's fist landed hard against Victor's jaw. Dazed, he bumped into the desk with his hip but was able to maintain his balance against it. He was just barely able to evade the second blow by twisting away, but John followed up with another immediately. A fraction of a second later, Victor lay on the floor with John looming over him.

Disoriented, Victor shook his head, then reached for John and grabbed him by the jumper. By putting his feet down flat and a clever rotation of his hips, Victor managed to heave John to one side and stand up.

"Let it go, John," Victor growled, rubbing his sore cheek. "You're drunk."

"So what?" John got up again too, swaying, and glared at Victor with a decisive gleam in his eye. He grasped the neckline of his jumper and pulled it over his head, tossed it aside, and spread his arms in invitation, as if challenging Victor to attack him.

Victor tilted his head to one side, remaining vigilant, and studied John's posture.

"You're a bloody coward!" John spat, baring his teeth, but his knees buckled and he had to hold onto the back of his armchair in order not to topple over.

Victor used the opportunity to land a blow on John, sending him to the floor. "I've wanted to do that the whole time," Victor claimed, following up with a second blow.

The taste of blood exploded on John's tongue, setting his body on red alert and sending adrenaline rushing through his veins. He lifted his arms instinctively to protect his face from any further blows. He fought back with his hands and feet like a feral animal, pushing Victor away and kicking in his direction.

"You fucking bastard! You should be grateful I saved your sorry arse instead!" John snarled, pulling back for another hit. His body was on fire and protested painfully, but he couldn't manage to bow to his last shred of common sense and pull away from the other man. The alcohol in his blood cost him in accuracy, though, enabling Victor to keep avoiding the blows. As if in a trance, John fell upon him and tried to gain the upper hand. But even though Victor had never trained in martial arts, it was obvious that he also brought enough experience in hand-to-hand combat to the table.

"They didn't teach you much in that stupid club, did they?" Victor mocked, only to be overpowered by John a moment later and thrown to the floor again. He groaned out loud when John landed on him with his full weight. Another punch split Victor's lip open. Victor moaned in pain and held the back of his hand against his mouth.

Thinking fast, John grabbed Victor's wrists and held them down to the floor. He pushed Victor's thighs apart with his shins in order to reduce his mobility. John's heart was racing and his lungs were on fire. It had been a long time since he'd felt this alive. Pain sizzled through his taut muscles, but at least the thick fog of alcohol was beginning to lift in his head.

Which had the additional effect of making him aware of the firm bulge pressing into his groin. John's breath caught. "You bloody bastard!"

 

+++

tbc

 


	28. Tuesday, 01.01.2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm... This is what was originally chapters 1 & 2, reworked... Yes, this was originally planned for the beginning and everything else as a flashback, but... then I wasn't sure because I couldn't foresee all the things that would change on the way. And it's a good thing I did it this way, because I've changed a lot in this chapter. Not least that this is now John's POV and not Victor's, just as it should be in the "present" time. ;)
> 
> You probably know already where all this is going, so if the idea of John and Victor "doing things" gives you the creeps, just read till the ****** and stop there. Can't guarantee that you won't miss anything though :p
> 
> +++
> 
> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

_3:37 AM_

John woke when the mattress moved beside him. Slumber still lay over him like a massive beast, chaining him with black fetters to the images that had stolen their way once again into his mind during the night. Images of huge grey figures wading through the Thames, clambering over bridges as if they were tree roots. Their bodies were transparent, their heads disappearing somewhere in the clouds. Only occasionally did they bend down far enough that their round, red eyes became visible. John had no idea what they were looking for. But he was afraid they wanted something from him.

The images, now barely more than an echo between sleep and wakefulness, were replaced by the rustle of cloth being drawn across skin and the sound of a zipper. Memories of the past few hours returned slowly. John wished he were back amongst the grey giants; they were less frightening. It felt as if a hole had opened up in his stomach, consuming him bit by bit, sucking him in until there would be nothing left of him. He didn't dare to breathe, just hoped that it would all be over soon and that he would be gone.

The bedroom door opened. John listened tensely to every sound, every breath, the slap of bare feet on the floorboards. The silence, the hesitation. Then the quiet creaking of the hinges and the click of the door being pulled shut. John's heart thudded dully against his ribs. His eyes were burning, filling with inescapable tears. All the physical reactions he'd taken so much trouble to hold back now erupted all at once. He wept silently into his pillow, which smelled both different than usual and yet oddly familiar.

He wrapped his arms around his trembling body, burying his face in the damp pillow. His fingernails dug hard into his skin, leaving behind red-hot half-moons. It wasn't enough to override the pain inside him. It would never be enough. No matter what he did, his pain only seemed to increase.

And since even that didn't seem to be enough, now he'd made one more mistake that was eating its way deep into his conscience.

Sobbing, his lifted his chin, gasping for air. There were a couple of drops of blood on the pillowcase. He ran his tongue over his injured bottom lip, which had split open again. With an effort, he stretched out and, trying to deal with the pain that flowed through his body, flipped the cover aside. He scooted to the edge of the bed, placed his feet on the cool floor, and stood up, wobbling. He waited until the sense of vertigo had subsided before slowly making his way into the bathroom.

A low growl escaped his throat when he saw the naked man in the mirror. His split lip was now decorated with drops of fresh blood and complemented by abrasions on his left eyebrow and cheekbone. Both spots were dark red and would turn purple by later in the day. Although he'd frequently taken his lumps while doing sports, there was a world of difference between voluntarily taking part in a match and beating each other up in a fit of rage and despair. The alcohol hadn't helped.

He could still taste the cheap whiskey on his tongue that he'd indulged in the day before. He cleaned his teeth. Twice. Then he stepped into the shower and turned up the hot water. Billows of steam enveloped him, concealing him from the judgmental eyes of his conscience. His hands travelled shakily over his body, distributing lather. A faint swelling on the side and back of his neck made him flinch when he felt it. The memory of teeth biting down on the spot, hot breath in his ear, lay like a block of ice in his stomach.

But that wasn't the real problem. Much more horrifying was the fact that he'd sought out the contact, even needed it. That the desperate battle had been more mutual than antagonistic. Comfort and understanding in the most absurd manner possible. Not to be alone with this all-encompassing grief, this disintegration. At least for a little while. Now the loneliness had once again assumed its place at his side, and a sense of being torn asunder – both mentally and physically – began to overtake him.

"Shit..." John muttered, leaning his forehead against the cold tiles. When he'd had enough, he turned the water off and wrapped a towel around himself. His mind felt a little clearer, a tiny bit cleaner. He glanced in the mirror again, checking his throat, his neck, and his back as well as he could. He swallowed hard. He discovered more oval-shaped marks on his shoulders, dark red with purple spots. Along with marks made by fingers on his hips, although they should heal quickly.

He sighed as he went into the kitchen and put some water on to boil. While the kettle was heating up, he dug some clothes out of the wardrobe in the bedroom and got dressed. It was nearly five o'clock when he settled into his armchair in the living room with a cup of tea and stared blankly at the black television screen.

 

******

 

_A couple of hours earlier..._

John knelt over Victor, his entire body on edge, gripping his wrists and pressing them down onto the patterned red carpet. A combination of anger, pain, and desire prickled through his body, making him shiver. Victor's chest rose and fell with his heaving breaths. His face was marked by scratches and blood clung to his lips. His eyes were feverish but wary.

It took more effort than John wanted to admit not to rub his pelvis against the erection he could so clearly feel pushing into his crotch. Contradictory emotions made him growl darkly. Without thinking about it any further, John leaned down and lightly touched Victor's mouth with his lips, still gripping his wrists firmly in order to prevent a potential blow. Victor's lips were soft and raw. The taste of copper bloomed in the hollow of John's mouth. Warm breath wafted into his face.

"John..." Victor rumbled, his voice barely more than a harsh croak.

John swallowed hard and met Victor's eye. A little bit dazed, a little bit stunned. Victor's feelings were so similar to John's. Something had been taken from him too. Irrevocably. And he didn't know what to do with his grief and anger either.

"I'm sorry," John murmured, not sure exactly what he was apologising for. The loss? The beating? He looked down at Victor's lips before brushing them again with his. This time Victor rose up toward him, returning the kiss hard; hungry. John released one of his wrists in order to stabilise himself better on the floor. As Victor grasped the back of John's neck to pull him deeper into the kiss, John pushed on Victor's chest with his other hand to make him roll onto his back again.

John shifted his weight and moved so that he was above Victor, until their mouths met. Holding himself up on his elbows on either side of Victor's head, John dared to meet Victor's gaze. Heat shot into his face when Victor's arms wrapped around his body, pulling him close; when he licked invitingly across John's lower lip; and when he finally plunged his tongue into John's mouth.

John sighed softly. His body was confused, trying to separate the pain from the pleasure and transport enough oxygen into his cells at the same time. Dazed and overheated, John let himself sink into the kiss, nipping at Victor's injured lip with his teeth and eliciting a tortured moan from him. They kissed again and again, desperately smashing their mouths together and grabbing fistfuls of each other's clothes and hair.

The metallic tang of blood from their split lips faded after a while. John's head was swimming in a sea of mixed-up emotions that he couldn't name. He shoved them firmly aside and tried to ignore all of the doubts, to focus on the here and now. One hand worked its way underneath Victor's black shirt, stroking warm skin and grabbing hold as if to make sure that the other body was real. John ran his hand over Victor's tousled hair, which felt much softer than he'd expected, and inhaled the other man's heady scent.

John felt Victor's heart hammering against his chest. His pelvis tensed as if of its own accord, frotting imperiously against Victor's groin and making him moan softly into their kiss. The low sound made gooseflesh run down John's back, triggering a promising tingling sensation throughout his body that rippled across his nerve endings like grains of sand, gathering in his loins like in an hourglass. His arousal developed slowly, his body still under the effects of too much alcohol.

Victor continued to stroke John's back, his shoulders, his nape, bunching up the material of his t-shirt and letting go again. Uncertain. John, unaffected by his ambivalence, grasped Victor's chin, tilting his head to one side and ignoring the painful hiss that Victor let out. John nosed the sensitive skin of Victor's lengthened neck, up to the divot beneath his ear, where he nabbed Victor's earlobe and slotted it between his teeth.

John latched onto the frantic pulsing of Victor's carotid artery as warm hands wandered up his thighs. They seized John's backside and kneaded the firm flesh through the rough denim of his jeans. At the same time, Victor arched his pelvis up toward John, rubbing his constricted erection against him. The contact sent an erotic prickling sensation through John's groin. He sighed softly and lifted himself up. He looked down at Victor with a feverish gaze, noting how hard he was breathing and how wide his pupils were.

Without waiting any longer, John reached for the placket of Victor's shirt and started unbuttoning it with trembling fingers. He gave up halfway with a growl of impatience and firmly tore the two halves of the shirt apart. In doing so, he sent more than one button flying across the room, only to land with a clatter in some dark corner or other. John ignored Victor’s breathless laughter and slid both hand and mouth under the black fabric, scraping one nipple with his teeth and licking the bud as it stiffened. 

Victor exhaled with a hiss and gasped softly as John nipped the tender skin a bit too hard. John suddenly moved away from Victor and sat up, reached for the hem of his t-shirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it aside. Victor's hands were all over him a moment later, sliding across his abdomen, chest, and shoulders. Recognition was reflected on his face when he saw the star-shaped scar. Of course Sherlock must have told him about it. Long fingers extended toward the pearlescent tissue, but John knocked them aside and shook his head.

"Don't."

Victor frowned and murmured an apology, turning his attention to John's well-defined upper body rather than the scar. He was obviously appreciative of John's regular fitness sessions. Not allowing any resistance, John grabbed Victor's hands and pulled him up with him until they were both standing. John needed a moment for his sense of balance to adjust to the sudden switch from horizontal to vertical. He was overcome by a sense of vertigo, and black spots danced in his field of vision.

Muttering unintelligible imprecations under his breath, John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to get his swaying body under control. Victor grasped John's biceps to support him.

"Everything all right?"

Strange question. It took a concerted effort on John's part not to roll his eyes. "I want to take you to bed," was all he said and started to move in the direction of the bedroom. On the way, he reached out for anything that could stabilise him – the armchair, the table, the door frames – and ended up leaning against Victor. In the hallway outside the bedroom, he pushed Victor up against the wall and kissed him again, conquering Victor's mouth with his tongue and reaching directly for the obvious bulge in Victor's trousers.

" _Hng_... John... we shouldn't..."

"Yes. I want to. Let me forget about everything for a while, okay?"

Torn between lust and uncertainty, Victor caressed John's cheek and tried to make eye contact. John wouldn't be put off from his intention. He leaned up, kissing Victor demandingly and massaging the erection in his pants with a firm hand at the same time. He was pleased to hear the way Victor's breath caught. It wouldn’t take much to nudge Victor in the right direction, to get what he desired, what he craved. He was in such great need of human contact.

John leaned against Victor with his entire weight, heat smouldering between them, and kissed his way across Victor's jaw. His lips ghosted over Victor's ear, barely a hair's breadth away, his voice daring and dark with lust.

"I want you to fuck me."

Victor inhaled sharply. His already crumbling reserve collapsed completely. He grabbed John by the back of the neck, drew him in, and kissed him hard. Pushing off the wall, he knocked John off balance but didn't let go of him. Instead, he took advantage of the moment to turn John around and push him into the wall face-first. John gasped in surprise but let it happen. He reached behind him and grabbed Victor, pulling him in close and surging back into him at the same time.

His heart rate increased several notches when he felt the obvious erection against his arse. Implacable and promising. His breath stuttered in pulses past his wounded lips. Lava crawled through his veins. Tickles of anticipation flooded his stomach.

Victor's lips, teeth, and tongue burned on his bare shoulders and neck even as fingers fumbled at his trousers and thrust inside. A jolt went through John when Victor slid his hand over John's cock and balls, massaging them lasciviously. John was still only half-hard, but he could feel that the touch of another person's hand was accelerating his arousal by magnitudes.

"Bed," he demanded shortly, withdrawing from Victor's reach. As he moved the last few metres into the bedroom, he held up his jeans so that they wouldn't slide down to his knees and hamper him from walking. Behind him, he heard Victor take off his boots, then the clank of his belt buckle. John sat down on the bed and slipped his trousers off his legs and his socks off his feet with the same motion.

He looked up at Victor when he closed the bedroom door behind him and opened the flies of his trousers. Victor's eyes rested on John the whole time, glowing with lust and desire. He hooked both thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and pushed them down his long legs together with his underpants, stepped out of the bundle of clothes at his feet, and took a step in John's direction. John gave Victor's completely nude body a thorough once-over and drew his lower lip in between his teeth.

He wasn't surprised that Victor was so successful with prospective lovers. The unshakable self-confidence he radiated was only underscored by his well proportioned body and firm muscles. It was a heady feeling to see the hunger in his eyes and to know that one was the focus of that attention.

With a sudden motion, Victor opened the drawer of the bedside table. John resented the implicitness with which he did so; after all, this was his bedroom now, not... Sherlock's.

Victor inspected the contents with a frown. There was an opened tube of lubricant gel, but no condoms. Well, that was no wonder given John's long abstinence. In the wake of the day's events, John certainly hadn't thought to purchase any for his date with Mary. Victor bent down to his jeans, took out two square packets, and dropped them onto the nightstand along with the lube.

"Always prepared, are you?" John muttered, lifting one eyebrow in taunt.

"You never know what the day might bring."

John chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. "Right..."

Victor leaned over to John so he could kiss him. He placed his knee on the bed beside John, making John slide back and let himself be lowered onto his back. Lying down beside him, Victor caressed his upper body, his chest and ribcage, grasping at his soft stomach. He roughly yanked John's hips closer, rubbing his erection against John's and kissing his neck and shoulders. John leaned his head back and let the various sensations take effect on him for a moment, following the tiny electrical shivers that Victor's mouth elicited.

But inevitably, images floated to the top of his consciousness that reminded him of when the last time was that he'd felt something like this – soft, hungry lips, wandering hands, warm breath on his skin – and a lump manifested in his throat.

"Hurry up, or do you want me to fall asleep?"

"John..." His brows drawn together, Victor's eyes darted back and forth between John's, examining him closely. John hated that expression. It made him question himself and his decisions. But there was no reason for that. He wanted this. Wanted to feel something other than the emptiness and darkness inside him. Wanted to forget everything else, just for a while.

Victor finally seemed to understand. He kissed John again, not cautious and gentle but with hunger and passion. With need. Maybe to quiet the voices in his own head. To numb his conscience.

John moaned when he felt Victor's hand on his cock, single-mindedly stimulating him until he was rock-hard. Frantic breaths struggled to escape John's lungs. An electrifying shiver ran through him, setting his nerve endings on fire, when Victor's thumb passed over his glans, spreading the fluid that dribbled out.

"...more..." John sighed, lost to the world, thrusting forward into Victor's fist as he sought more friction. He only vaguely registered Victor sitting up to reach for the lube. Victor then knelt between John's legs, pushing them further apart, and leaned over to lick John's swollen glans. John gasped audibly for air and tensed his pelvis to push up toward Victor's mouth.

John became aware of the click of the plastic lid, but still made a surprised sound when he felt the cool gel a moment later. Skilful fingers smeared it over his hole while Victor's thumb deliberately stroked his perineum. At the same time, Victor propped himself up with the elbow of his other arm next to John and grasped his erection. He kissed and licked the stiff shaft, eventually sliding his mouth over the head and lowering himself as far as possible with a smooth motion.

The warm, wet enclosure demanded all of John's attention, such that Victor's first finger was able to easily pass through his tense ring of muscle. Heat spread through John's body, glowing red on his cheeks and chest. It was a strange sensation, unfamiliar, but he knew that it would get better as soon as his body had adjusted. He felt the finger moving inside him, cautious yet demanding, and made a conscious effort to relax.

When Victor swallowed, narrowing his throat around the head of John's cock, John was no longer able to hold back a moan. He came to the belated realisation that Victor had used the distraction to insert a second finger inside him. The intense friction against his stretched muscle threw John completely off. He struggled for air and to maintain his presence of mind but wasn't able to find much of either as he fisted the sheets. He moaned, trying to regain control over his body, but failed utterly.

Victor took his own sweet time. He brushed John's prostate once or twice, until John was shaking with ecstasy and pushing down on Victor's fingers impatiently.

"I'm ready," John panted, and was a little shocked at the neediness in his own voice.

"Not yet," Victor said, sending a shiver of electricity through John's body when he rubbed the sensitive bundle of nerves again with his fingertips.

John's hips jerked uncontrollably. "For the last bloody time," John complained, slapping the flat of his hand against the covers. "I'm ready! Now fuck me!"

"Impatient!"

Victor carefully withdrew his fingers and huffed irritably. "Don't complain afterwards!" He leaned over to the nightstand and picked up one of the little packets. He watched with annoyance as John turned over awkwardly and arranged himself until he was kneeling facing away from Victor. "Don't want to look at me?"

John grunted out a humourless laugh. "We either do it like this or not at all."

"Fine then..." There was an ominous tone to Victor's voice, but it stood in contradiction to the tender kisses he deposited on John's shoulders.

A shiver ran through John, part nerves and part pleasure, when he felt Victor's erection between his legs. There was a crackling sound of plastic being torn, then the squelch of the lube. Cloth rustling underneath them. Fingers smearing the moisture around. When that hot mouth wandered across John's shoulders again, he realised that he'd been holding his breath. He inhaled deeply and pushed away the discomfort that was starting to arise.

Victor placed his left hand between John's shoulder blades, nudging him forward so that John had to hold himself up on his elbows as Victor's other hand slid over the curve of his arse and brought his pelvis into position. John's nerves were at their breaking point, and his ribcage felt as if it were encircled by tight bands. The pressure on the nape of his neck intensified until he was lying face-down on the sheet, his back arched to a concave bow and his arse pointing up. Completely exposed like this, he felt both shame and intense arousal struggling against each other inside him.

But rather than doing what was expected, Victor stroked John's taut back muscles, over his waist, hips, and arse, caressing the inside of his thighs. He grasped John's erection and wiped across the damp tip, fondled his soft testicles and rubbed his perineum. He pierced John with two fingers again, plunging them deep inside his body.

" _Victor_!" Frustration coloured John's voice dark. Impatient, he thrust his hips back toward Victor and growled insistently.

"Be quiet."

John breathed a sigh of relief when Victor withdrew his fingers and opened the tube of lubricant again, smeared some more of its contents on his erection, and wiped off his fingers on John's hole. Victor scooted closer to John and pressed the head of his cock against the stretched ring of muscle. John hissed as he drew in a breath, then let it out with a cut-off huff. Victor stopped immediately.

"Don't... don't stop..." John stammered, digging his fingers into the material underneath him. His body was clenching up automatically to defend itself from the invasion. It was more an unpleasant twinge than painful. Still, it made him break out in a sweat. Frantic breaths burned in his lungs.

"Sshh..."

Warm hands described small circles on John's skin, calming him bit by bit. He let himself be lulled by it, eventually relaxing and giving his body the time it needed to adjust. Only when John's respiration had normalised did Victor push further inside him, slow but relentless, until his hips were touching John's backside. John whimpered softly, utterly overwhelmed by the sensation of being stretched and the intense stimulation of a multitude of nerve endings.

"F-fuck..."

Victor's fingers dug firmly into his hip bones, holding John in place. Unhurriedly, he began to circle his pelvis, making sure to slip out of John just a little before sinking back in deep a moment later. His breaths were stuttered and shaky, as if it were taking an immense amount of willpower to maintain control over himself.

John felt like he was in a trance. Completely filled and subsumed. Swept away into the depths of their mutual lust. Clinging to each other in order not to drown. He gasped and moaned mindlessly. Not thinking of tomorrow. Not thinking at all anymore. He lost all sense of time and space as Victor moved in him, with him; when pure desire took control and Victor's thrusts became faster and more intense.

"Harder!" John demanded, biting into the cover to smother the loud moan that escaped his throat.

This time, Victor complied with the directive without hesitation. He grabbed John roughly by the back of his neck, held him down, and snapped his hips forward. Laboured breaths, the slap of skin against skin, and John's uncurbed whimpers filled the room.

Every thrust set off a mini-firework in John's body. Sparks danced across his skin, and tingles of ecstasy flowed through his body. Pre-ejaculate dripped from the slit of his glans onto the bed and left a splotch on his stomach where his penis bumped over and over from the movement.

"Is this what you wanted? Hm?!" Victor growled over the litany of _'ahs'_ and _'ohs'_. He slackened his pace and ran his hand over John's taut, sweat-damp back muscles, observing the way his hole was stretched obscenely around his erection, how his cock kept dipping inside that incredible heat.

"D-don't... stop..." John whimpered breathlessly. His shoulders and arms hurt and his thighs were quivering, but he could feel his climax getting closer and closer. Pleasure scrabbled through his body, kept collecting in his pulled-up testicles, only to subside again like waves that never reached their crest.

Behind him, he heard Victor blurt out a guttural sound before knocking John's legs further apart with his knees and pounding into him hard. Victor's fingers dug mercilessly into John's skin, leaving red marks in their wake.

The continuous stimulation of highly sensitive nerves screwed John's arousal tighter and tighter. This time, though, it didn't abate, didn't diminish, but grew with every thrust until all of a sudden, everything in John seized up and a wave of hot-and-cold sparks chased down his spine. John's muscles contracted over and over as he came. He groaned mindlessly into the cover, unable to distinguish all of the sensations. White spots danced before his eyes, and a continual stream of ejaculate poured out between his legs.

"Oh... _fuck_... John..." Victor gasped.

John twisted around, out of breath, and pushed weakly against Victor's chest to hold him up. At least for a moment. Cursing, Victor held himself up on either side of John. Hot breath burned between John's shoulder blades and sweat dripped onto his skin, running in beads down his back.

Victor's motions had come to a standstill, but John could still feel him as hard as ever inside him. He let himself sink down all the way onto the blanket, exhausted, which caused Victor's erection to slip out. Victor grasped John's shoulder and turned him over far enough to kiss him. He roughly grabbed a handful of hair on the back of John's head, greedily plunged his tongue into John's mouth, and bit at his lips.

"I'm not finished with you yet..." Victor rumbled between two kisses, catching John's stuttered breaths. He rolled onto his side, pulling John with him so that they lay spooned, wrapped his arms around John, and held him pressed close against him. He penetrated John's body again, running his hands possessively over John's sweaty torso, hips, and deflated cock. He kissed John's shoulder and nape, licking the salt from his skin. He rolled his hips at a leisurely pace, enjoying the steady slide in and out of the searing heat.

John was breathing hard. His nerves were completely over stimulated, and the constant friction verged on painful, but it kept up the buzzing weaving its way through his body and caused an incredible tingling sensation. As if it were preventing his orgasm from coming completely to an end.

Victor plunged over and over into the tight, damp channel until his breaths became more frantic and he let out a lust-filled sigh. He sucked hard on John's trapezius, sinking his teeth into the flesh there, and snapped his pelvis forward.

John reached back to grasp a handful of Victor's sweat-damp hair, held him close, and whimpered in pain from the sizable bite. Victor was embracing him so hard that John could barely breathe. He dug his fingers into the back of Victor's neck and felt the throb of the erection inside him when Victor thrust one final time deep inside and spilled with a moan. Moments later, the tension drained out of Victor and he buried his face in the hairline at the back of John's neck, panting. His rattling breaths remained the only sound in the room.

Exhaustion spread through every fibre, every bone in John's body, and the sore spots that had been injured by teeth and nails started to quietly make their presence known. Victor's racing heart pounded against John's back. Victor still had both arms wrapped around him, unwilling to move so much as a centimetre.

John felt a strange emotion latching into place in his heart. A sense of togetherness the likes of which he hadn't felt in a long time.

It wasn't until a few moments later that he realised Victor was shaking slightly; then he heard the quiet sobs and felt the tears rolling down the back of his neck. Without a second thought, he reached one hand back and ran it tenderly over Victor's head.

 

+++

 

tbc


	29. Monday, 07.01.2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/profile) for this awesome translation! <3

John had just poured a pot of tea when he heard the outside door to 221B close, and shortly thereafter Mrs Hudson's characteristic 'Hoo-hooo!' rang out. He listened tensely to the tapping of the old lady's heels as she slowly and methodically came up the stairs to the first floor.

"Welcome home, Mrs Hudson! Would you like a cuppa too?" John called out, anticipating that his landlady would stick her head through the kitchen doorway any moment.

"Thank you, I'd love one! And happy New Year, John!" she trilled, but John couldn't help noticing  there was an anxious undertone to her voice. No wonder: after all, he hadn't reacted to any of her calls or numerous texts that she'd sent since New Year's Eve. A flash of guilt spread through John's gut, but he tamped it mercilessly down and turned to face the woman.

He struggled to plaster a smile on his face when he saw her horrified expression and heard her shocked intake of air. Nearly a week had passed, and the bruises on his chin and over his left eye had faded but were still clearly visible. His split lip was mostly healed and the scab had fallen off, but the new skin gleamed an angry red. Sporting the obvious traces of a fist-fight along with his now overgrown hair, he must make a rather derelict impression.

"John!"

"Everything's fine, Mrs Hudson." Well, that was largely a lie, but there was nothing in either John's or Mrs Hudson's power that could change anything about all the things that had gone wrong.

The elderly lady stepped into the kitchen with decisive steps, set the square tin she'd brought with her onto the table in passing, and stopped in front of John. Without hesitating a second, she reached out her wrinkled hands, cupped his face, and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. It took a concerted effort on John's part not to let himself be moved too deeply by the unconditional concern in her expression. He turned away from her brown eyes and gave her a pained smile.

"I've brought biscuits," she announced and let go. She briskly picked up the two cups of tea John had prepared and set them onto the kitchen table, then went over to the refrigerator and got out the milk.

"Great," John replied, glad that Mrs Hudson was kind-hearted enough to drop the subject. He sat down and opened the tin, extracted one of the baked goods, and took a hearty bite.

 

******

 

After a second pot of tea, several more biscuits, and numerous stories from Mrs Hudson about what she'd experienced or seen over the holidays with her family, John was left alone once more. The sudden quiet in the kitchen was both soothing and oppressive. He'd barely got a word in edgewise during the conversation, instead just asking questions to prompt Mrs Hudson to keep talking. He was in no state to talk about everything that had happened to him in the past two weeks, nor did he want to.

After John had done the washing up, he went into the living room and sat down at the desk. The book of Grimm's fairy tales that he'd borrowed from Mrs Hudson back before Christmas lay open beside his laptop. He opened the file of pictures of the letters Sherrinford had sent Sherlock over the years, picked up the book, and flipped through it to the next story.

Over the past couple of days, he'd already marked the sections mentioned in the twelve letters, read through the entirety of the relevant stories, and searched for interpretations on the internet. He'd also jotted down Mycroft's opinion on every letter and pasted those in next to the corresponding fairy tale in the book.

Something still bothered John about the whole thing, however. If Mycroft was right and three of the letters had reached Sherlock in Florida, then Sherrinford must have known where his little brother was at the time. But Mycroft had maintained that he hadn't been aware of Sherlock's whereabouts, and said that Sherlock had kept the letters secret from him as well.

So had Sherlock and Sherrinford secretly been in contact? There were no stamps on the envelopes, nor were there any addresses, so it was an impossible lead for John to pursue.

John didn't know why he was doing this to himself. Quite frankly, he didn't have any great expectations, but in a certain sense it just seemed right to him to at least look for some clue – anything – even if the prospects of success were infinitesimal. After all, Sherlock and Sherrinford were both long dead, and it was more than unlikely that the whole thing was in any way connected to Moriarty.

Nonetheless, John had looked up the messages which Moriarty had sent to give him clues about Victor's location on the day of the fall, and written them down on a piece of paper.

_Where would you look for someone who'd been sleeping for a hundred years?_

_Roses are red, his lips are blue..._

However, John couldn't recall the messages that Moriarty had written to Sherlock during the same time frame, and Sherlock's phone had disappeared along with him. John did remember that Moriarty had referenced the stories of Rapunzel and Red Riding Hood, but the exact wording of the clues was gone forever.

The similarity between Moriarty's messages and Sherrinford's letters couldn't simply be dismissed, and yet none of it made any sense – unless Moriarty had got hold of the letters somehow and copied their speech patterns. But what reason would he have had to imitate Sherrinford's style? Simply to give Sherlock clues where his friends were? Out of pure spite? Or for another reason?

The internet search for Sherrinford Holmes had only yielded a few hits. At least John had been able to find out that the eldest son in the Holmes family was nine years older than Sherlock and had studied political science and mathematics at Oxford. A digitalised article from the university's newspaper, _Cherwell_ , mentioned him in reference to his graduation as best of his class. But aside from that, the worldwide web didn't seem to have ever heard of Sherrinford – which was no wonder given his profession.

John picked up one of the two notebooks he'd found amongst Sherlock's old papers together with the letters, leafed through it, and skimmed a couple of passages. He'd read both notebooks from cover to cover already, but hadn't drawn any significant conclusions. They had apparently been created before John moved into Baker Street and contained a hodgepodge of thoughts, ideas, and inspirations that Sherlock had jotted down in his angular handwriting. There didn't seem to be any order or connection between the entries, and neither Sherlock's family members nor Moriarty were mentioned by name.

John sighed and closed the notebook, set it back down next to the other one, and ran both hands down his face. Leaning back in the desk chair, he stretched his legs out under the table and heard a soft click. Wondering what it was, he scooted the chair back and bent down to see what he'd kicked away. He got up and walked around the desk, bent down, and picked up a button. At the sight of the small white disc, his stomach lurched.

Snatches of images appeared in his mind's eye, and a tingling sensation ran through his fingertips. The memory of fabric in his hands, the sound of it ripping in his ears. Skin and hair and the taste of blood. Heat. Pain. Sweet and rough. Moans. Hot breath on the back of his neck. Tears.

John took a deep breath, swallowed past the tightness in his throat, and dropped the button into the bin next to the desk.

Six days. Six days and no response. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, John went over to the couch and sat down. Against his better judgment, he opened the messaging app, then his email inbox. Several people had tried to contact him recently. People who had read the horrible article in the newspaper and wanted to get his side of the story. John deleted all of those messages unread.

Victor had switched to radio silence since that night.

It had taken an incredible amount of effort for John to take the first step and send Victor a message after two days had passed. When he'd finally done it and pressed 'send', he'd felt a little bit lighter. It was only a small shift. Maybe just knowing that he wasn't a coward, and that he was well aware of what a stupid mistake he'd made.

But Victor hadn't deigned to respond. Neither to the first message nor the next two John had sent in succession. One angry and hurt, the other resigned and apologetic. He felt both guilty and used. After all, Victor had given Kitty Riley a very in-depth interview and blurted out all kinds of stories about Sherlock that John hadn't even known.

The reporter had taken shameless advantage of Victor's no doubt miserable frame of mind and put the crowning touch on the year 2012. Many of her descriptions were completely over the top or simply wrong, but who cared about the truth when there were so many juicy details to be heard?

But that was only one side of what had happened. John had a guilty conscience. He hadn't wanted to hit Victor. Alcohol, anger, and disappointment were one thing, but injuring someone on purpose went against everything John believed in. Yes, he'd hurt people before, even killed them, but never when acting on the basis of a selfish emotion like anger, vengeance, or jealousy.

But most of all, he'd never seriously fought a friend – and despite everything, that's what Victor was: a friend.

The fact that they'd gone on to have sex that night... well, they probably would have killed each other otherwise. But it wasn't like they'd suddenly developed feelings for each other, right? Months filled with stress and desperation had discharged in a huge clash – just like an inescapable thunderstorm. Were they now standing before the shards of their friendship, or would they be able to talk about it eventually like adults?

 

******

 

Another week passed before Victor showed his face. One day, the doorbell to 221B rang, and there he was. The seconds during which they stared at each other seemed to go on forever before John stepped aside and wordlessly indicated that Victor should come in. They went up the stairs silently and entered the flat. John closed the door and went into the kitchen on autopilot to put water on to boil and fill the tea strainer with tea leaves. He heard the rustling of fabric as Victor took off his jacket and tossed it over the arm of the couch.

John used the time while waiting for the water to boil to place cups, milk, and sugar on a tray, and to order his thoughts. After nearly two weeks of silent treatment, it seemed ridiculous to start throwing accusations at each other and re-heat the entire affair. But he couldn't just sweep it under the rug either. Maybe they'd needed the distance to calm down and be able to act civilised around each other again. Or maybe the apparent peace was just an illusion.

John set the tray down on the coffee table in the living room, poured the tea, and dragged the desk chair over to sit down across from Victor. Victor appeared calm and collected, even if he was avoiding John's eye. He gazed pensively out the window, maybe trying to find the right words, or maybe looking for an escape route. Dust particles danced in the beam of light falling through the curtains.

"Where have you been?" John asked as casually as possible.

Victor looked up as if making a calculation, then opened his mouth to speak only to close it again and shake his head. "I'm sorry, John. For everything. I shouldn't have said anything to that reporter. She exaggerated my story in order to sell papers, and I can't do anything about it because I was too drunk to realise I was making a mistake."

"You signed the rights over to her." The vague hope that they might be able to proceed with a court case against Kitty Riley evaporated into thin air, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste.

Victor nodded curtly. "Looks like it. My solicitor received a copy of a document that I must have signed that night." He sighed, turning his head to one side and rubbing his eyes. "I can't take it back, John. I'm sorry."

"You said that already..."

"Can you forgive me?" Victor asked, now meeting John's eye with an expectant expression. John wondered involuntarily how often Victor apologised for his errors in judgment – of which there must have been many.

John shrugged and picked up his teacup, only to hold it in his hands rather than taking a sip. The red-hot porcelain burned against his skin. "What does it matter?"

"John..."

"You disappeared, Victor... left me alone with... with all this shite... after everything. You..." John stopped and took a deep breath before shaking his head wearily and taking a sip of the milky liquid. "Why did you leave?"

Victor folded his hands, trying to find the right words. "Whenever things get complicated, I disappear. It's always been like that. I need distance. Space. To be able to think clearly. I don't know how... Our friendship is important to me, John. _You're_ important to me... and I... shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation on New Year's Eve. That was... _another_ mistake." Victor pressed his lips together dejectedly and stared down at the coffee table between them, awaiting John's judgment.

When he looked up again, he appeared resolute. "John... I hope you can forgive me. But if you prefer, I'll leave you alone from now on. It's up to you."

John drained his tea in a single gulp and set the cup back down on the tray. He didn't know what to make of what Victor had said. Of course what had happened between himself and Victor wasn't only Victor's fault. John had lost control over himself, had drunk way too much and lashed out like a wild animal. It would be pitiful to maintain that Victor's error in judgment alone was responsible. John felt as if he were floating in an airless chamber, and it was only a question of time before he collided with someone to discharge his grief and despair onto.

At least with Victor, he'd run into someone who was in the same state; someone who knew how to handle a situation like this. It would have been much worse if he'd ended up with Mary. Who could say what damage John might have done on that front? His behaviour had been unforgivable anyway, and he still owed her an apology...

But Victor... Victor was John's last link to Sherlock, and their friendship meant something to him. To both of them. For that reason, there was no question of whether he would forgive Victor or not. He'd already done so a long time ago, and he hoped the feeling was mutual.

"Of course... of course I forgive you, you idiot. And if we can close the file on that whole episode, I'd be in favour."

"Yes... let's do that," Victor said and smiled. He picked up his teacup, relieved, and took a big sip.

John watched Victor and pursed his lips in thought. "If you always run away... is that the reason why you and Sherlock never... why it never worked out between you?"

"Amongst other things... it was definitely part of the problem. Sometimes... sometimes his presence was just... too much, you know? He was... exhausting and horribly demanding. More than I could take. That's why I kept needing some space from him – and immediately missed him as if a part of myself were missing. He couldn't deal with it any better than me, but for other reasons, I believe." Victor paused and searched John's expectant expression, trying to determine whether he was following the explanation.

"Sometimes I felt like he was seeking protection from me more than anything, and that's why he was so angry when I needed to leave. I never really understood it fully. It was almost as if... as if he felt some deep-seated fear but couldn't properly identify it. That might also be another reason why he reacted so enthusiastically to the drugs. To shut off his mind, to let go... he could only do that when he was high." Victor shook his head sadly and rubbed both hands over his face as if to wipe away the memories.

John's heart clenched painfully at those words. It was unbearable to think that Sherlock hadn't known how to help himself any other way than nearly killing himself. His self-destructive tendencies, even going so far as suicide, had apparently overshadowed his entire life. In the end, the leap from Southwark Bridge hadn't been any different.

"Mycroft told me about Sherlock's problems at Uni, and that he moved in with you. About the fight with Sherrinford and... the overdose..." John anxiously rubbed his palm on his left thigh and wondered whether he might have changed anything about Sherlock's past, made anything better, if they'd met earlier. Whether he would have noticed how much the man would eventually mean to him. He pushed the train of thought aside as it wasn't doing anything other than causing a deeply rooted, dull pain.

"Yes... that wasn't the first one, though." Victor told John about receiving a call from Mycroft when he was in the States and Mycroft telling him about Sherlock's overdose in the abandoned house and Abigail's death. Victor had returned to England as quickly as possible and found Sherlock in an appalling state.

"He felt responsible for her death. Later, I often had the thought that he only put up with me because he was wracked by such feelings of guilt. After all... she'd been my friend first. I don't know exactly what happened, whether it was an accident or whether a junkie attacked her. But I'm certain that Sherlock would have done everything to help her if he'd been in any condition. The fact that I couldn't get him off the drugs... that I believed I had everything under control..." Victor sighed heavily.

John pressed his lips together and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't think any one person bears the responsibility for things like that. It's … a combination of unfortunate circumstances and decisions. How can you foresee something like that? I'm sorry you lost Abigail and had to witness Sherlock suffering from it at the same time. Did the two of you ever talk about it?"

"Yes and no. I made it clear to him that I didn't hold him responsible for Abby's death. But whenever the subject of drugs came up, the whole thing blew up again. I was so frustrated that I didn't react right away when he overdosed the second time. I didn't go see him until a few days later. I just couldn't. I couldn't do it to myself, and I hated myself for it."

"Sherrinford killed Redbeard..." John said quietly, as if Victor had ignored that detail.

"I know... He told me later as well, but I didn't know anything about it at first. I couldn't believe it."

"Yeah..."

They fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts, until John finally stood up and cleared his throat. "Do you want some more tea?" Without waiting for a response, he picked up the tray and went into the kitchen, put water on to boil, and prepared another pot. When he returned to the living room, Victor was standing bent over the desk, skimming the letters that lay spread out there.

"What the hell is all this, John?" he asked, giving John a bewildered look.

John set down the tray and went over to Victor, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment, and cleared his throat again. "Well... apparently there were more of those letters and Sherlock wasn't the one who sent them, but the recipient. They're from Sherrinford," he explained briefly. When he saw Victor's perplexed expression, he began to recap his most recent insights. He related what he'd found in the box, the revelatory conversation with Mycroft, and the strange similarity between the letters and Moriarty's texts, as well as the fact that he couldn't see any real link between the two.

"I also found these two notebooks in the box, but unfortunately they don't offer any clues about what's going on with the letters." John shrugged and sat down on the couch to pour tea into both cups.

He watched as Victor took one of the notebooks and leafed through it, furrowing his brow in thought and returning repeatedly to the same page. After placing a pen between the pages, he picked up the other notebook and flipped through it too.

"'Again and again'," Victor read out loud, "'every bloody night I hear their whispers hissing spiteful threats but whenever I tell anyone about it no one listens why won't it stop why won't it just stop'."

John grunted in confirmation. He'd read the passage, written in tight, frantic letters, barely a space between words, clearly tinged with fear.

And written in the other notebook: "'Maybe the drugs were dirty someone held my hand and talked to me I think The same words over and over and over! They know you're lying they know it no one believes the figments of your imagination I'm just part of your fantasy'." The word _fantasy_ was underlined several times. Victor snapped the books shut and put them back on the table.

"That reminds me of the nightmares he sometimes had. They got especially bad when we were apart for too long. He'd mutter completely nonsensical things, and then he wouldn't speak for days. It stopped after a while, and he even used to deny it had ever happened."

"That sounds terrible," John said. Ever since he'd returned from Afghanistan, he was only too familiar with the terrors of the night. "I never saw anything like that in the time I lived here with him. Maybe he didn't have those nightmares anymore. Do you think that might have been part of the mutism? Did he ever say anything about that?"

"I didn't know anything about that either. Although he did mention once that he'd had those nightmares ever since he was small. I can't say exactly when, but at least it seems reasonable to say there's some connection," Victor said, crossing his arms over his chest.

John sighed, frustrated. "Well, it's all just speculation. I suppose we'll never find the answer."

 

******

 

Eleven days later a letter was delivered to 221B Baker Street.

The deliveryman wasn't carrying a mailbag or wearing a uniform. He didn't appear to be a Royal Mail employee.

He pushed an envelope through the gold-plated letter slot in the door and walked back the way he'd come.

The beige envelope that lay on the floor of the entryway bore neither a stamp nor writing.

The only thing on it was the stamped silhouette of a bird.

 

+++

 

tbc

 


	30. Friday, 25.01.2013 (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

_John,_

_"Mirror, mirror on the wall,_  
Who's the greatest liar of them all?"  
"O King, you are the greatest liar here, it's true,  
but over seven hills and dales  
without the seven dwarves from olden tales  
lives Snow White, a thousand times the better liar than you."

_It's time to put an end to all the liars..._

_SH_

John read the brief lines over and over. The buzzing in his head was getting louder and louder, overpowering the sounds seeping through the front door from Baker Street outside, and vibrating in his bones like the echo of a kettledrum.

The piece of paper in his hand looked exactly like the letters that Sherrinford had sent to Sherlock all those years ago. The same yellowed paper, the same angular typeface from an old-fashioned typewriter, the same ink-stamped silhouette of a flying bird on the envelope.

It was impossible.

Completely and utterly impossible.

Someone was playing a sick prank. There was no other explanation. At least that was the only thought John could hold onto long enough without immediately banging his head against a wall. Fury churned in his guts, scalding his nerves. He folded up the paper with a calm he didn't feel and slipped it back inside the envelope, stuffed the whole thing into his trouser pocket, and went upstairs to the flat to put on his shoes.

His body was functioning as if on autopilot. As he pulled on his winter coat, he composed a short text on his mobile phone and sent it off.

_We need to talk. Now._

Down on the street, he hailed the first cab he saw and got into the back seat.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, glancing into the rear-view mirror.

"Hold on."

Barely ten seconds later, John's phone alert sounded. John opened the text he'd received and grimaced before giving the driver the address of Mycroft's office.

John stared tensely down at his hands the entire ride, going through the letter in his head over and over again. He had a thousand questions, and he wasn't going to leave Mycroft's office before the other man had provided some answers.

 

******

 

John strode with quick, determined steps through the lobby to the reception desk. A young man in a suit welcomed him, stretching his mouth into a friendly smile straight out of an advert. He looked like he'd be more at home working at a fashion magazine publishing house.

"Good morning, how can I help..."

"Mycroft Holmes," John barked. For a brief moment, he felt sorry for the man, whose carefully arranged expression suddenly slipped away.

"That's... erm... Mr Holmes is..."

"It's all right, Jeremy. I'll take care of Dr Watson." The familiar figure of Mycroft's assistant Anthea appeared behind the glass-and-chrome barrier and held out a laminated card over the card reader to open the turnstile. She didn't take her eyes off her Blackberry for so much as a second the entire time.

John clenched his left hand into a fist several times, squared his shoulders, and followed the woman to the lifts. He knew from experience that it was useless to say anything to her, as she only spoke to unimportant people like John when she deigned to or was ordered to.

The interior of the office building felt oppressive to John. To be sure, this wasn't the first time he'd found himself here, but the windowless corridors and artificial light always robbed him of any sense of time and gave him the impression of having been dropped into a bad spy film.

John's eyes landed with interest on the woman's hand: she was tapping the keys on her Blackberry at a tremendous pace, switching between windows in next to no time, as if she were working on five different things at the same time. Presumably nothing less was expected of the personal assistant to the most powerful man in Great Britain.

Anthea entered a room at the end of the corridor without knocking, rotated three-quarters of the way around with the door handle still in her hand to hold the door open for John, and looked at him for the first time since he'd set foot in the building.

"Dr Watson, sir."

"Thank you. John, please have a seat."

Nothing had changed in the office since his last visit. The heavy wooden furniture, the lamp with the glass shade on the desk piled high with dozens of stuffed binders, the black desk chair that looked completely out of place in the old-fashioned surroundings.

As usual, Mycroft was wearing a bespoke three-piece suit with a silk tie and pocket square. The golden fob of his pocket watch flashed between the folds of the anthracite grey fabric.

Apparently unbothered by John's presence, Mycroft rifled through a stack of papers before setting them aside with an aggravated sigh and focusing his icy blue eyes on his guest.

"What's so urgent, John?"

The man's patronising attitude was the last thing John could use at the moment. The undercurrent of anger bubbled up again, causing him to close the distance between himself and the desk in two large strides. Simultaneously, he stuck his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the crumpled envelope, slammed it down onto the desk with full force, and glared daggers at Mycroft, grinding his teeth.

"What... the _hell_... is this supposed to mean?" he said with barely restrained fury in a menacingly calm voice.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow with a ludicrous combination of anticipation and boredom, meeting John's gaze with stoic aplomb before inspecting the envelope. If John had so much as blinked, he would have missed the momentary twitch of Mycroft's eyelids. Was it surprise? Disbelief? Fear?

"You've found one more." Not a question; a statement of fact. Or maybe it was the only logical conclusion which the mind of such a highly intelligent man could draw.

John stood straighter and crossed his arms over his chest. An unfriendly smile distorted the corners of his mouth. "You might say that, yes. It was lying on the floor in the entryway this morning. Someone had obviously dropped it through the letter slot," John explained as he watched Mycroft take the letter out and read it, stony-faced.

"Tell me what this is all about. This... Is it a joke? It's addressed to me this time! To me, Mycroft! From SH! It can't possibly belong to the other letters. Is this..." John bit down on his lower lip, whirled around, and dropped into one of the chairs standing in front of the desk, bone-weary.

"It must be someone who read the article and thinks it's a lark to play a sick prank on me... Someone who... someone who..." A heavy shudder ran down John's spine, making him shiver and fall silent.

None of it made any sense. Thousands of people must have read the article, but the mysterious letters weren't mentioned there at all. The only people who knew about them were John, Victor, Mycroft, and presumably his assistant. John didn't believe that Victor had anything to do with it. Not after everything that had happened between him and John.

"Maybe it's Moriarty's network? Moriarty also used the fairy tale pattern in his messages after all. But... but what do they want now with me?" John asked, thinking out loud as he looked down at where he was wringing his hands.

"Quiet!"

John glanced up, startled. Mycroft was as white as a sheet. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. But what surprised John even more than that was the vehemence with which Mycroft tugged at the knot of his tie, as if he couldn't breathe. John had seen Mycroft angry a couple of times, although it had pretty much always been around Sherlock. But the super cooled facade had never thawed so far in John's presence before.

"Mycroft..."

"Do be quiet, John. I need to think..."

No more than thirty seconds elapsed before Mycroft opened his laptop and started to type. The blue light from the screen reflected off his chalky face. The high-speed clicking of the keyboard echoed off the walls. Mycroft's tense state was clearly reflected in the crease between his eyebrows when he paused, rested his elbows on the desk, and folded his hands under his chin. His blue eyes darted rapidly back and forth across the laptop screen.

John became more nervous, rubbed his palms on his thighs to dry them, and cleared his throat discreetly to remind Mycroft of his presence.

When their eyes met the next time, John broke out in gooseflesh. There was something ominous in Mycroft's eyes. Something dark and foreboding.

"John, what I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room. The only reason I'm telling you is that you are apparently directly affected despite all the preventive measures that have been taken, and I shall need to instigate an appropriate response."

John released the air out of his lungs noisily, not even aware that he'd been holding his breath, and nodded once.

"Moriarty is alive."

Those three simple words struck John like a bolt of lightning. Something deep inside him contracted hard, as if an immense hand had grabbed his intestines and squeezed, causing a pained cry to escape his throat. A low whimper that he didn't even recognise as his own.

James Moriarty. The man who had shot Sherlock Holmes and thrown him off Southwark Bridge. He'd re-entered John's life in order to finish his task.

John's expression contorted with pain as he let his head fall forward and buried his face in his hands. A tortured 'no' squeezed past his vocal cords, breaking halfway through. A terrible feeling came over him that all of the pain he'd gone through in the last few months, along with saving Greg, Mrs Hudson, and Victor, had only been a brief break in the storm; the realisation bowled him over like a tsunami.

Mycroft's voice reached him as if through a thick layer of cotton wool. "We have him in custody, John. I've just checked. He's still in his cell and under constant surveillance."

"Why didn't you tell me that from the start?!" John demanded, slightly surprised at how calm he sounded even after hearing that news.

Mycroft pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. "It wouldn't have made any difference. James Moriarty will never leave his cell alive – even if I have to ensure it personally." The icy chill in his eyes was more than convincing. John had no doubt that Mycroft would follow through on that promise, should Moriarty ever make so much as one false move. He nodded his understanding and let his restless gaze wander around the office.

His mind was racing, his thoughts canting between fear and terrible memories. Anger and grief frothed in his stomach, making him gasp for air in short, stuttered breaths. "Those... those pictures you showed me... of his body..."

"Faked."

John nodded once to show he understood, only to shake his head and frown sceptically. "Why?!"

"His network. We're taking it apart piece by piece. My best operatives are currently in the midst of uncovering and eliminating individual cells that have been linked to Moriarty all over the world. Those gangs have become sloppy since Moriarty's death was made known in the proper circles. However, we don't know who has taken over the helm since his supposed demise, or whether chaos still reigns within their ranks. For that reason, we need to proceed with utmost caution."

Mycroft sighed as he leaned back in his chair, although he appeared anything but relaxed. The rigid line of his shoulders, the deep crease between his eyebrows, and his twisted mouth became even more prominent when his eye landed on the letter on the table. His overall posture telegraphed what a catastrophic event this must be.

"You have an idea... who might have written this letter," John stated with more conviction in his voice than he actually felt.

For several long seconds, Mycroft simply gave John a calculating look; John fancied he caught sight of the internal dispute on his face, which was unable to conjure up its usual icy facade again. This might have been the first and only honest conversation he'd ever had with Mycroft Holmes, John considered, biting down on the inside of his cheek as he waited expectantly for it to continue.

"Moriarty was interrogated over the course of several weeks, yet he always refused to reveal even the slightest bit of information. The only one who could ever get anything out of him was myself. Every round of questioning was recorded. The ones involving myself needed to disappear, however, as my methods were... questionable."

John mustered the man across from him, breathless, digging his fingers into the fabric of his jeans. A sense of unease came over him when he heard those words; they placed Mycroft in a completely different light, should John's fears be confirmed.

"As a military doctor, you more than anyone should be aware of which methods are most successful at making a prisoner talk, Dr Watson." It was obvious that Mycroft was trying to create distance between himself and John by using the impersonal tone and his title. The question was whether it was to protect himself, or John.

"Torture...?" John pressed his lips together in a failed attempt at taking his question back, and gave Mycroft an uncertain look. He couldn't imagine that the civil servant would actually stoop to such methods, given that he must be aware what it would mean for his position.

Mycroft didn't react. He simply stared at John, silent, suppressing any movement which might indicate confirmation or denial. The ticking of the clock on the wall echoed loudly in John's ears until he eventually lowered his eyes to break the tension.

"What... did he say then?"

"Nothing," Mycroft answered simply before returning his pensive gaze to the computer screen. "He said that demons from the past were waiting for me... whatever he intended that to mean..."

John grunted noncommittally, although he could well imagine that Mycroft wasn't exactly the most beloved member of the political scene. Or anywhere else. John recalled only too well all the times Sherlock had got worked up about his brother.

"If Moriarty's alive then... and one of his cronies has taken over his business dealings... what in the world does he want with me? Why send me this letter and why in this format?" John asked, clearly vexed. He could not for the life of him fathom a reason for why he should suddenly be so important. "And what's the point of the message? Who are the liars? Who's Snow White?"

Mycroft sighed again and interlaced his fingers. He hesitated for a couple of long seconds before looking at John and beginning to speak. "It is to be presumed that your connection to Sherlock is the relevant point here, John. Ever since that article, it's no longer a secret what your relationship was, and the assumption that you would come straight to me is obvious – as we can see."

"Er... yeah, of course. Who else should I tell about this letter if not you?" John said with a dubious frown. He didn't understand what that had to do with his question.

"Further, one presumes that you would eventually realise who is referenced in this letter. You may be a bit slow, but you're not entirely stupid..."

John pulled a tetchy face. It was a never-ending source of amazement how Mycroft was able to hitch a compliment to an insult, self-evidently placing himself on a level above that of the person to whom he was speaking.

"John... I've done everything in my power to protect Sherlock, but it's obviously not enough."

"What...?"

"Sherlock's alive. He's in a safe house outside the country, but based on what this letter says, I need to assume that information regarding his location has ended up in the wrong hands," Mycroft explained matter-of-factly without so much as batting an eyelash.

John gaped at him, stunned.

_Sherlock... alive... ?_

"What... that... is that..." Before John knew what was happening, he'd leapt to his feet, curled his hands into fists, and fixed Mycroft with a murderous look, incandescent rage in his eyes. He wanted to drag Mycroft out of his chair by that preposterous tie, punch him in the face, make him feel all the pain that John had had to endure over the last few months.

"You've been lying to me this whole time?! Telling me Sherlock was _dead_! That it was impossible to survive a fall from that bridge after being shot! Why the _hell_?!" Completely beside himself, John kicked the chair he'd been sitting in a moment before. It fell over with a wooden crash and skidded into the nearest wall.

John was breathing hard. He felt his head becoming lighter with every breath even as an inescapable trembling moved through his body, making his knees turn to jelly. Trying to maintain his balance, he held onto the desk and let his head hang down between his shoulders. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat. The clear drops beaded down his cheek and dripped silently onto the desk. Nausea coalesced in his stomach, and he swallowed thickly.

"If you..." John struggled to take in air, and looked up. A lethal fire burned in his eyes. "If you're lying to me, Mycroft, if all this is meant to be some kind of joke... I swear to you, you will not leave this room alive."

The reaction to John's threat was minimal, but glaringly obvious to anyone who knew Mycroft. The lowering of his eyelids to escape the baleful glare; the frown lines on his forehead and the downward twitch of his thin lips. Shame, resignation, irritation, and... upon very close inspection there was also a tiny bit of relief in the politician's expression. Perhaps due to the fact that he had finally been able to reveal that information.

"It's no lie, John. Sherlock is currently in Switzerland. The last stop before heading off on a mission to China to take down Moriarty's network there. We had hoped to gain a tactical advantage by spreading the news of his death so that he could act without being recognised, but now... obviously someone's seen through us."

The expression on Mycroft's face when he looked at John was so open and vulnerable that it struck John speechless for a moment. There was worry there. Worry and fear over having lost control of the situation.

"We need to get him back, John. Now. Sherlock is powerless against him. He cannot be allowed to get his hands on him!"

"Who are you talking about?" John drew his eyebrows together, bewildered. Moriarty, Sherlock's arch-enemy, was in a maximum-security prison under continuous watch, so it could hardly be him. Mycroft was still holding something back.

"It's _impossible_! How...?" Distraught, Mycroft buried his face in his hands, lost to the world in his own thoughts.

Just then, a light bulb switched on in John's head. Mycroft was always so calm, had a handle on the big picture of everything going on around the world. Nothing and no one got past him without at least being taken note of and evaluated. And yet the existence of whoever had sent that letter seemed to completely throw him for a loop.

This had nothing to do with the political posturing Mycroft was usually involved in. This was personal.

"Sherrinford..." John whispered into the eerie silence of the room.

 

+++

tbc

 


	31. Friday, 25.01.2013 (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

John sat in the small kitchen, resting his elbows on his knees with his face cradled in his hands. He stared steadfastly at a stain on the linoleum between his leather half-boots. Dried coffee.

He didn't even glance up when Anthea set a cup of tea down in front of him, took the milk out of the employees' refrigerator, and poured some for him. Chair legs scraped across the floor and black pumps edged into his field of vision.

It felt as if someone had slowed time down. As if he were underwater and it would take an enormous effort to swim against the current. All sounds dull and far away. Acid in his veins. A vacuum in his lungs.

Sherlock was alive.

It had been two hundred and twenty-three days since Sherlock fell off Southwark Bridge. Seven long months since Sherlock's 'death'.

And he was alive.

John still couldn't comprehend it. He couldn't believe that the information had been kept from him. That Sherlock hadn't attempted to make contact with him.

Mycroft had sent Anthea to John because he had an appointment he couldn't postpone. An online conference with some country on the other side of the world. Sherlock was alive and Mycroft was participating in conference calls. Sherlock was alive and Mycroft was putting John off with tea in a cardboard cup. Sherlock was alive, and John was amazed at how calm he was. As if part of him deep down had known it all along.

"Drink the tea, John. You'll feel better."

John raised his head and looked over at Anthea, but the woman had her phone in front of her face as usual and was tapping around on it lackadaisically. Had she known it the whole time? Of course she had. After all, she worked for the most powerful man in the British government. It didn't seem difficult at all for her to keep other people's secrets.

Would it be hard for John? To know things like that and not be allowed to tell anyone? To know there was someone who was suffering as a result of all the secret-keeping, and still to hold his peace? Could he really be so cold-hearted? Probably not; Mycroft didn't think he was particularly trustworthy, at any rate.

John sipped the milky liquid, put the cup back on the table, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger in order to counter the headache he felt coming on.

 

******

 

Nearly an hour passed before Mycroft had John brought in to see him again. Mycroft indicated that John should sit in the chair he'd kicked across the office before; it was back in its place as if nothing had happened. He handed John a sheet of paper across the desk. An analysis report.

"I'm afraid you were quite correct with your assumption, John. The letter stems from the same source as the others. The same typewriter. The same paper. The same ink for the stamp. No fingerprints, of course."

John hadn't realised that Mycroft had passed the last letter on to one of his colleagues to have it analysed in a – presumably in-house – lab. It was amazing how many people were taking orders from Mycroft Holmes, even on a weekend. The man who never slept. And John had thought Sherlock didn't sleep much.

 _Sherlock_...

John cleared his throat and put the report down on the desk, leaning forward in his chair. "So... how? How is this possible? Is Sherrinford alive?"

Mycroft gave his head a barely perceptible shake, as if he couldn't believe it himself. "It's impossible... I buried him."

"We also buried Sherlock..."

"Sherlock's coffin was empty, John; Sherrinford's wasn't."

"Did you see him?"

"Of course..."

John pressed his lips together and stared into the middle distance between himself and the other man. Was it actually plausible that the eldest of the Holmes brothers had lived underground for years, far from Mycroft's watchful eye?

"You said he died on a mission for MI6... What exactly happened back then?"

"John, you realise I can't talk about that..."

"And you must realise that you owe me, Mycroft!" John growled, clenching his hands into fists. "I really have better things to do than to run up to the next person I see in the street and tell them all of your little secrets!"

Mycroft furrowed his brow, giving John a grim look. "You understand that you would suffer the consequences if any of what we've spoken of gets out?!"

"I know all about suffering!" John countered, stretching his mouth into a smile that wasn't a smile at all. "But go ahead and threaten me if it makes you feel better!"

Mycroft just stared at John for a long while, as if considering what to reveal and how to package it. "You already know about Sherrinford's confession to Sherlock, that he was responsible for Redbeard's death."

John nodded once and squared his shoulders, preparing for whatever came next.

"Sherrinford was already being held in a maximum-security facility at the time. His work with MI6 had been put on hold after he was held responsible for a massacre during a mission in which he was supposed to secure some highly sensitive information. In the event, not only the alleged terrorists but also four of our own people were killed. The investigation concluded that it could not have been an accident; that it must have been intentional. The whole thing looked like a setup from which no one could emerge alive. I had important connections to MI5 and MI6 at the time already, and was therefore immediately informed that my brother had been placed under arrest. I was allowed to speak to Sherrinford, perhaps in the hope that he would open up to a family member. Of course no one had been able to discover yet what motive Sherrinford might have had for his conduct."

Mycroft shifted uneasily back and forth in his chair, avoiding John's eye. Was he doing it subconsciously, or was it all for show so that John wouldn't question his good intentions on account of his past errors of judgment?

"What did he say?" John asked when Mycroft's pause grew long.

"That he'd been bored..."

"Wha—? Bored?!" John repeated, aghast, ignoring Sherlock's murmured 'Bored!' echoing in the back of his mind.

Mycroft nodded grudgingly, folding his hands in front of his lips as if in prayer. "He said he missed our family and wanted to give up his work with the secret service. That he wanted to lead a normal life, maybe go back to university and teach. In hindsight, the notion was utterly absurd, but I was naïve and... sentimental. Part of me believed him. After all, I'd known Sherrinford my entire life; I had grown up with him and learned a lot of things from him... that's why it also never seemed strange to me that he wanted to call home and speak with Sherlock.

"It wasn't until he mentioned Redbeard that I understood... but it was already too late at that point, the damage had been done. To be sure, Sherrinford didn't have the opportunity to describe any of the details to Sherlock on the phone, but he'd left a box for him that contained the rest of the poison he'd used to kill Redbeard along with a note describing the deed. All he told Sherlock over the phone was where to find the box. I tried to warn Sherlock, but he didn't listen to me. He found the hiding place and read the confession. It was all planned."

"And Sherlock overdosed shortly after that," John added.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. As I said, he already had a tendency due to his lifestyle to reach for drugs when he was under emotional pressure. He disappeared for three days and I turned London upside-down to find him, pulled out all the stops and informed Mr Trevor, who took the next flight to England in the hope that he could help with Sherlock. I eventually found him in an abandoned building that was being used by junkies as a flophouse. Sherlock was huddled on a filthy mattress, the only source of light a candle that was burned almost all the way down. When I entered the room, he'd already shot up. The belt he'd used as a tourniquet was hanging loose around his wrist. He looked at me, but I don't think he recognised me... The last few days had left their mark on his body. The will to live had faded from his eyes. The scene was... disturbing."

Mycroft broke off and stared down at his hands, lost in the memory.

John cleared his throat gently, grasping for words. "You... you said recently that you'd made a grave error at the time, something you couldn't forgive yourself for... It wasn't the fact that you'd kept mum on who killed Redbeard, was it."

Mycroft shook his head. "No... I wanted to protect Sherlock from that pain, and I'd do the same thing again today. I never thought Sherrinford would use that information to hurt his own brother. No... when I saw him sitting there... the empty syringe in his hand... I... I knew that it was already too late, and that whatever he'd injected himself with had probably been too much. The death wish was written all over his face... and..."

"You left...?" John gritted out from between stiff, pressed-together lips. Tears shot into his eyes when Mycroft slowly nodded. "You walked out and left him... to his own devices..."

"Yes," Mycroft answered softly. "For a fraction of a second, I thought it would be better that way. That Sherlock... wasn't strong enough to handle this life. That it... would be so much easier if I didn't constantly have to worry about him..."

"God..." John huffed out a pain-laced sigh and inhaled sharply. His heart was beating frantically against his ribs. His forehead was covered in cold sweat and he was shaking.

"No sooner had I left the building than I realised that it wasn't Sherlock's weakness that bothered me, but my own. I immediately went to the nearest phone box and called an ambulance. It can't have been more than fifteen minutes before I returned to the building, but the ambulance and several police cars were already there, and Sherlock was being brought out. There had been some sort of altercation during which a young woman had died. Abigail Thomas, an acquaintance of Sherlock's. I must have just missed her. According to the police report, she'd run afoul of a junkie and was fatally injured. Sherlock was in no condition to say anything about what had happened, as he'd barely been conscious at the time, but after completing rehab, he undertook a lengthy investigation to find out what really happened. The perpetrator was never found."

John nervously twisted his hands and concentrated on breathing. He'd more or less calmed down, although he still couldn't believe that Mycroft had left his own brother – Sherlock – alone in his moment of need. That he'd almost allowed Sherlock to die.

As long as he'd known the Holmes brothers, the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft had always been fraught, and now he understood why. In spite of all the conflicts and venomous battles of words that John had witnessed between the two of them, he'd always had the sense that Mycroft cared deeply about Sherlock.

Apparently that one slip-up, that single tragic momentary weakness, had shaken him badly, and he'd been trying for years to make up for his mistake and protect Sherlock in any way he could. Even if it meant faking Sherlock's death.

John knew that sense of helplessness in the face of death all too well. How often had he fought with everything he had to keep a soldier from dying in his hands, even when the man had begged him to let him go because he couldn't stand the pain any longer? And yes, there had been moments when John had thought he didn't have the strength anymore. Moments in which death would have been the greater mercy. But he hadn't been able to reconcile that with his conscience, not to do everything in his power to save a life.

At least Mycroft's moment of weakness hadn't led to his younger brother's death. As much as Mycroft denied his emotions, there's no way he would have survived that loss.

"What happened to Sherrinford then?" John asked, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation again.

"He spent nearly seven years in prison after being sentenced for his crimes. He must have managed to post the letters to Sherlock during that time. He obviously had someone helping him. Someone within MI6 who was supporting him. It might even have been the same person who arranged for Sherrinford to be offered a deal. This was just before there was to be a joint Canadian-Afghan offensive against cells of the Taliban in Panjwai."

John looked up in surprise. "That's right when I was stationed in Kandahar."

"I am aware... At any rate, several – let's call them power brokers – needed to be disposed of for Mission Medusa to have any chance of success... Naturally, the operation was carried out in top secret; nothing could be allowed to get out to the public or other unauthorised ears. Any witnesses would have needed to be eliminated. But the MI6 mission was too dangerous to carry out as it was planned; it would most likely have resulted in the deaths of the involved agents," Mycroft explained, vigilantly clocking John's reaction.

"So they sent Sherrinford? Why should he carry out a mission that would most likely have cost him his life, after having sat in prison for seven years?"

Mycroft nodded soberly. "Presumably anything was better in his estimation than spending so much as one more day behind bars without having anything to do. Furthermore, his ego was big enough to convince himself that he would be able to get out of any situation which might arise. He was extremely critical of anyone else's mental capabilities. In the end, he was offered a deal to shorten his life sentence and clear his name if he took on the mission. But I think he saw the mission as more of a challenge than a death sentence anyway," Mycroft asserted.

"A comprehensive psychological profile of Sherrinford had been prepared which confirmed what I eventually had to admit to myself as well: Sherrinford displayed distinct signs of psychopathic tendencies that could be traced back to his childhood. From manipulation to lack of empathy, up to and including violent behaviours toward people and animals... He presented as a textbook case of psychopathy, and at the same time... you couldn't tell by looking at him. He was always surrounded by an aura of superiority, but... he acted unobtrusive, calm. He knew what to say to make the people around him feel safe, and all the while he was pulling the carpet out from under their feet inch by inch just to see them stumble. It was all merely a game to him..."

Mycroft curled his hand into a fist on top of the desk. It must have been unbearable for him to see a member of his own family like that. Someone he'd used to look up to. Someone he'd once loved.

"So he accepted the mission and got shot. Or at least you assumed he had. You repatriated his body and buried him... Except now it looks like Sherrinford succeeded in somehow faking his death and going into hiding," John summarised.

"Yes, that is my belief."

"But if Sherrinford had an accomplice inside MI6... isn't it likely that that individual – or individuals – are still acting in secret somewhere?" John asked, swallowing heavily. He had a distinct sense of foreboding.

"Yes, that was my first thought as well. Because that would mean first and foremost that Sherlock's mission is doomed to failure. There must be a reason why Sherrinford continued to seek contact with Sherlock right up to his presumed death, even if that communication appears to have been one-sided. I need to know why he wants to lure Sherlock out into the open at this particular juncture," Mycroft said and steepled his hands in front of his mouth the same way Sherlock had always done. Did – the same way Sherlock always did.

"So what do you intend to do?" Ignoring the hopeful tone in his voice, John watched the other man. His skin was tingling as if his entire body were electrified.

"We're going to get Sherlock back."

John inhaled sharply. A wave of relief washed over him. "When? What can I do?" he asked, his voice filled with excitement.

But Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing for the time being. Sherlock is incommunicado in Switzerland in order to ensure he's not easily tracked. Aside from myself, only three of my most trustworthy colleagues are aware of his actual location. I'll sit down with Anthea right away and decide who can take over the task of transporting him back. I think..." Mycroft glanced at his wristwatch. "We should have completed all of the necessary preparations in three hours at the latest, meaning he could be back in London as early as tonight."

"Send me!" John demanded, jumping to his feet.

Nonplussed, Mycroft gave John a searching look and frowned. "I don't think that--"

"Please!" John cut in. "This way Sherlock will know right away how serious the situation is, given that you kept me in the dark for so long that he's alive! He'll know that I'm not in danger and that I'm fine."

John felt a rising sense of hope when he saw that Mycroft was giving the proposal serious consideration.

"All right... fine. I'll still be discussing the plan with Anthea first and make a decision as to who will bring you to Sherlock. Anthea will show you to the library so that you can find something to occupy yourself with rather than damaging any more furniture," Mycroft commented dryly, albeit with a hint of a smile on his lips.

John smiled as well and nodded enthusiastically. As if on command, the door to the office opened and Mycroft's assistant entered, asked John to follow her, and turned on her heel without once looking up from her phone.

"Oh, and John... please leave your mobile phone here. You won't need that for a little while."

John frowned, bewildered, but did as he was told. Mycroft probably wanted to prevent John from contacting anyone on the outside, even if the only person who came to mind was Victor; he would have quite liked to tell him about Sherlock's return. But of course John wouldn't actually have done it.

So much for trust.

 

******

 

The library wasn't very large, and contained mostly books on political and historical events around the world. John leafed idly through a few volumes, unable to concentrate enough to read more than a couple of sentences and forgetting their contents a few seconds later.

He returned the tome on the Crimean War between 1853 and 1856 to the dark wooden bookcase and sighed. Nervous energy pumped through his veins, not allowing him to relax. He paced back and forth in front of the narrow windows covered by heavy curtains, overlooking the quiet side street. It was early afternoon already, and the sun would be going down soon. Would they still manage to fly to Switzerland today?

When the door to the library was pushed open, John whirled around. Anthea came in with a tray bearing two porcelain teacups and a paper bag. She balanced it deftly as she brought it to one of the tables in front of the window, where she set it down. Steam rose from the cups, and the sweet-spicy scent of Darjeeling wafted into John's nose.

"Have a seat," Anthea ordered him, reaching for the paper bag and taking out two pre-packaged sandwiches. She handed one silently to John before sitting down herself.

"Er... ta. But I'm not especially hungry."

"You should eat something. According to my information, you haven't eaten anything today and it would be regrettable if you collapsed on us during the flight. You'll need the energy."

In the wake of the well-intentioned dressing-down, John unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. The taste of cheddar, chilli, and tomato spread through his mouth, and his stomach made a happy gurgling sound. He was apparently hungrier than he'd thought. The corners of Anthea's mouth twitched with amusement before she bit into her own sandwich.

"Any news?" John asked.

"The decision of who will go with you has been made. The agent is being briefed by Mr Holmes right now. Afterwards, I'll be escorting you to the airport."

"Good... that's good." John ate his late lunch on auto-pilot, his mind on the upcoming flight. How would Sherlock react when they saw each other? When they were finally standing face to face? Euphoria bubbled up in his stomach, tugging at his heart. He couldn't allow himself to even think about that moment, otherwise he was afraid he would go crazy.

After they'd eaten, Anthea took her omnipresent mobile phone out of the inside pocket of her blazer and scanned the screen. She nodded and stood, picked up the tray, and walked toward the door.

"Come along, John."

John promptly followed her. Anthea set the tray down on her desk in the anteroom and led John into Mycroft's office again. A slender figure stood at ease between John and Mycroft, her back turned toward John. The woman was dressed entirely in black with leather boots and a woollen hat. There was a gun holster around her shoulder.

"The preparations have been completed, John. The only thing left is to introduce you to your escort," Mycroft said, raising his left eyebrow. "Agent Ashworth, may I introduce Dr John Watson. Dr Watson, Agent Ashworth."

The woman turned to face John. A delicate smile danced on her thin lips, her eyes flashing a cool blue. John stopped in the middle of his stride and stared at her, floored.

"Mary?!"

The woman he knew as Mary Morstan revealed a row of white teeth and gave him a teasing but not unfriendly grin. Her glee at John's stunned reaction was written all over her face.

"Not today, John!"

 

+++

tbc

 


	32. Friday, 25.01.2013 (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!
> 
> +++
> 
>  
> 
> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BdfH0CAKK4>

John sat anxiously staring out the window of the 4-door Jeep he and Mary had transferred to after they'd landed. His head was bursting with all the information he'd received during the day. Like a puzzle with thousands of pieces where he could finally tell what the image was going to be, but which stubbornly refused to let him put all the pieces in their proper places.

Night had fallen by now. Street lamps and a couple of windows here and there in the vicinity were the only sources of light in the hazy darkness. Snow crunched under the tyres of the car as Mary turned onto a country lane. John had no idea which Swiss city harboured the tiny private airport where they'd landed. He probably wasn't supposed to know.

Not that he would have had the chance to tell anyone about the mission; Mycroft had not only confiscated John's mobile phone, he'd also made sure Mary kept a constant eye on him since they'd left the office building in London.

 _Mary_. As it turned out, the woman worked for MI5 and took orders directly from Mycroft. He'd introduced her as Agent Ashworth, but John still thought of her as 'Mary'. During the flight, she'd confessed that she'd only joined the taekwondo club in order to keep an eye on him.

She'd said Mycroft was afraid that John would break down completely sooner or later, and he'd hoped that Mary could stop him from doing anything stupid, should John's behaviour lead to any kind of mental incapacitation that made him lose control. But as just a good friend she could never have been any kind of substitute for Sherlock – and she'd never been more than that in the end.

John didn't know what to make of Mycroft's meddling. On the one hand, he felt patronised. After all, he was a grown man and could take care of himself. On the other hand, he was touched by the concern and the knowledge that Mycroft hadn't stopped watching out for him after Sherlock's alleged death.

It was no surprise that Mary hadn't told him her true identity, in light of the whole situation. Still, knowing that she had not only lied to him the whole time but also tried to seduce him left a bitter taste in his mouth. John wondered once more how far Mary would have gone for her assignment on New Year's Eve, had Victor not intervened. He decided he didn't actually want to know.

Mycroft obviously considered Mary to be trustworthy. After all, she was willing to drive with John to this dubious safe house where Sherlock had been staying for a while now. Since Mycroft still didn't know which MI5 operatives were double agents, they needed to exercise particular caution if they wanted to bring Sherlock back to London unharmed.

"How much longer will it be?" John asked, rubbing his cold hands on his thighs. There was so much adrenaline in his body that his legs were twitching and jerking uncontrollably. He needed to move. He was going stir crazy.

"You just can't wait to see him again, eh?"

John cursed the flush of red that rose to his face. "It's been seven months since I thought he died. That's more than enough time, isn't it?"

Mary made an affirmative sound and smirked knowingly. "In normal weather conditions, it takes about an hour, but with this fog we'll probably need a little longer. The house is on a hill outside of town. I hope the roads have been cleared."

 

******

 

It ended up taking them nearly two hours to arrive at their destination, since the road had only been partially ploughed. It was frustrating. John was so full of nervous energy he would have loved nothing more than to get out of the vehicle and run the rest of the way, if it had made any sense to do so.

The safe house stood at the end of the lane, isolated up on the hill. Behind it, snow-covered fir trees towered against the dark, starless sky. The house's facade was made of rough-hewn stone and brown shingles. The curtains were drawn across the few windows. There was just a hint of light behind one, nothing more than would come from a small table lamp. There were no sounds at all.

John stared at the silent house and kept opening and closing his fists to get the trembling in his body under control. He took a deep breath, feeling at the same time as if he were suffocating.

"Everything okay?" Mary asked with a smile.

"Yeah... yeah, of course. Just... excited. Did he hear us? Is he going to come out or do we just go in? Wouldn't want him to think we belong to Moriarty's lot..."

"I'm fairly certain he's heard us. You could hear a squirrel sneeze out here. There's a secret knock to use as a signal so he knows when MI5 agents enter the building. We haven't been able to reach him to let him know there's a mole amongst us, so..." Mary shrugged indifferently, checked that her weapon was secured, and stepped out of the car.

John followed her at a short distance and with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He watched her knock a tattoo on the door, hard enough that it should be audible throughout the house, before taking the key Mycroft had given her out of her purse and unlocking the door. She stepped into the entryway and felt around on the wall to her right, then turned on the ceiling lamp and looked around.

"Mr Holmes?"

John hesitantly entered the house behind her and peered down the corridor as he closed the door after himself. His heart was beating in his throat, slowly but surely shutting off the oxygen to his brain. He felt downright dizzy, he was so nervous.

"Stay here, I'm going to have a look around first," Mary said and walked past the kitchen toward the living room, her hand on her gun. She looked into both rooms to check them before knocking on a closed door and raising her voice.

"Holmes? My name is Agent Ashworth. Your brother Mycroft sent me."

She pressed down on the door handle and pushed the door open, stepped into the semi-darkness of the room, and in doing so moved out of John's field of vision.

A low, dark voice spoke: "Show me your identification."

_Sherlock!_

As soon as he'd received the confirmation, John lunged forward and threw himself through the doorway, his heart racing like mad.

And there he was.

Untamed brown curls fell across his thin, pale face. He was wearing a wrinkled grey shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black trousers. He was barefoot – and armed. His revolver was pointed at Mary, but when he caught sight of John, his arm sank down at his side as if lead weights were attached to it.

John's heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

"What the hell are you doing here?! You shouldn't be here!" Sherlock's voice was laced with fear and anger. It looked like he was completely overwhelmed by John's sudden presence in his hideout.

John took a step back, his initial reaction shock. But a blink of an eye later, he saw Sherlock's cool facade crumble and collapse in on itself. Anguish, incredulity, and a hint of relief were reflected there, as if he couldn't believe that it was John he was seeing. He pressed his left fist against his temple and dug his fingers into his tangled hair. A single tear ran down his cheek and dripped off his chin.

"John," he gasped, tossing the gun onto the bed behind him.

John didn't need more than two steps to close the distance and take Sherlock into his arms. "Sher—" His voice failed halfway through. Something in him seemed to crack open, veritably bursting forth, when he felt the incredible solidity of Sherlock's body against his. Relief flooded every single one of his cells, and he sighed into the dark curls.

"Sherlock... Sherlock..." John greedily imbibed every move Sherlock made. Every shaky inhaled breath, every quiver, no matter how small. The feeling of the fingers digging into his jacket, inescapably pulling him close to the living, breathing figure. Every touch smoothed out sharp edges, healing a bit of the distance they'd both had to endure for so long.

John looked up at Sherlock and cupped his face with trembling hands, running his thumbs along the distinctive curve of Sherlock's cheekbones and tenderly wiping away the damp trails there. "I've finally found you..." John whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

"John... I don't understand... what's happened?" Sherlock's hands roamed across John's shoulders and neck as if of their own accord, caressing the back of his head and catching in his blond hair. There were so close that John could taste Sherlock's words on his lips.

"Change of plans. You're not flying to China, you're going back to London. You're coming home... with me." Their first kiss after more than seven months apart was fleeting, almost accidental, falling between two words. But as soon as John had completed his sentence, he pulled Sherlock close and gave him a proper kiss. Not gentle, not tender, but full of pent-up desperation following the long period of having had to do without.

Sherlock responded to the offensive with just as much enthusiasm, if not more, and kept whispering, "John," between their lips as they met, dipping his tongue into John's mouth and nipping at his winter-chilled lips.

John was panting and dazed. His heart and pulse were hammering against his ribs with no discernible rhythm. It was as if every one of his thoughts had been extinguished, leaving nothing but _SherlockSherlockSherlock_ echoing unceasingly inside him. He sobbed blissfully into their embrace. Sherlock's breath, his familiar taste, his cherished smell – it was almost too much for John's senses to process all of the stimuli he'd thought were gone forever.

When the sound of someone clearing their throat came from the door, both men looked up. Mary was leaning against the door frame, her arms and legs crossed, watching the scene with one eyebrow perked with interest.

"I truly hate to interrupt, but there are a couple of things we need to discuss. I've put water on to boil."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in annoyance but nodded and reluctantly let go of John. John reached for his hand and laced their fingers together; it was definitely too soon for him to move so much as a centimetre away from Sherlock. Their eyes met over Sherlock's shoulder and they exchanged a warm smile before following Mary and sitting down next to each other on the sand-coloured couch in the living room.

The kettle clicked in the kitchen, and Mary got up to prepare the tea. John couldn't take his eyes off of Sherlock, and observed how he kept a vigilant eye on the agent as she walked away before turning to John. The hard lines in his face softened, and a gentle smile danced on his curved lips. John still couldn't believe they were back together. He squeezed Sherlock's hand affectionately and returned the smile.

A short while later, Mary returned with three teacups and a pot on a tray. She poured some of the steaming beverage into the cups before reaching for her rucksack, which she'd set down next to the coffee table, and settling in the armchair across from the couch. From the rucksack, she took out a padded envelope, which she handed to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened it and slid the mobile phone it contained out into his palm.

"With regards from your brother. It has the same number as your old phone. Unfortunately, they weren't able to save the rest of the data," Mary said, taking a sip of her tea.

"Hm," Sherlock said and scrolled through the list of contacts before turning the phone off and dropping it into his trouser pocket. "So what happened? Why are you here?" The question was directed at Mary, but Sherlock intensified his hold on John's hand as if he wanted to underscore how happy he was about their reunion.

"It turns out that information about your presence here and the upcoming mission in Beijing have leaked. The entire operation had to be called off. Mr Holmes told me that a fairly clear threat was made toward you. For that reason, we're bringing you back to London. We'll have to see what happens from there," Mary explained calmly.

"A threat?" Sherlock drew his brows together fiercely and gave the woman opposite him a suspicious look.

Mary reached into her rucksack again and pulled out a manila folder, which she slid across the table. It contained several photographs and documents bearing Mycroft's signature. John saw right away that the pictures were of the fairy tale letters.

Sherlock stared at the papers in disbelief, flipping through one letter after the other before finally dropping the file back onto the table when the trembling in his hands became too obvious.

"What the hell is this?"

Mary gave John a pointed look, and John sighed quietly. He picked up the folder and pointed at the picture of the letter that was addressed to him instead of Sherlock. It was hard to believe it had only arrived that morning. It seemed like forever since then.

"This letter turned up at Baker Street this morning. We assume that... it's from the same sender as the others... that it might be from Sherrinford," John said carefully.

"That's impossible," Sherlock said tightly and leapt to his feet. He crossed the living room with long strides, turned on his heel, and returned to the couch. Like a big cat in a cage that was much too small.

"Mycroft said the same thing, but all the signs point to it being true, and..."

"John, you don't understand..."

"Then explain it to me!" John snapped, more harshly than he'd intended.

"I don't want to talk about it!" Sherlock countered and stomped angrily out of the room.

John gave a resigned sigh and scrubbed his face with both hands. When the silence became unbearable, Mary spoke up. "Whether it's true or not, it's late and we're not going to be able to drive back tonight thanks to the fog. I think we should postpone anything else until tomorrow. The elder Mr Holmes most certainly has something to contribute to this conversation. We'll leave at sunrise tomorrow. So... if you don't have any objections, I'll make myself comfortable on the couch," Mary said, and gave John an enigmatic smile.

John nodded vaguely and got up, bade Mary good-night, and headed in the direction Sherlock had disappeared. He closed the bedroom door behind him and took a deep breath. He was all mixed up inside. All of the emotions from the past few hours and the threat of imminent disaster looming on the horizon were taking their toll.

At the same time, he couldn't imagine that he'd be able to find a moment's peace that night. How was he supposed to sleep now that he finally had Sherlock back at his side? How was he meant to sleep and take the risk of waking up and discovering that it had all been just a dream?

He slid out of his half-boots, took off his jacket, and hung it on the door handle. Sherlock was standing by the window, peering through the curtains out into the night. John stepped up behind him, wrapped both arms around him, and pressed his face against Sherlock's nape.

"You've lost weight..." John whispered, running his fingers over the distinct outline of Sherlock's ribs beneath the grey fabric. Sherlock just nodded; John felt the movement more than saw it. "Mycroft told me a little about Sherrinford. About his work with MI6 and his last mission. About the thing with Redbeard..." Sherlock stiffened markedly at those words. "I know everything's weighing heavily on you, and I understand that you don't want to talk about it, Sherlock. But if it's true... if he really did fake his death and has returned..."

"It can't be true..." Sherlock whispered, and began to tremble.

"Sherlock... the letters were in your possession the whole time. No one else saw them before I found them. Not even Mycroft! It's unlikely that anyone else is using them now to get to you. Besides... they were all written with the same typewriter, on the same paper..."

"It _cannot_ be true... It's impossible... it's..."

"Please tell me what happened, Sherlock. What went on between you and Sherrinford?"

Sherlock shook his head and tried to twist out of John's embrace, but John maintained his hold, laying one hand on Sherlock's chest to calm him and in doing so felt his heart beating wildly underneath.

"Okay, okay. All right. Not now... Do you want to tell me what happened instead? After you fell, I mean? The rest... can wait."

Sherlock abandoned his resistance and relaxed palpably. He let out a shaky sigh and stroked John's sleeve where it rested on his chest. "I thought Mycroft already gave you a full report."

John shook his head. "Not really. I've only known for a couple of hours that you... that it was all a setup."

Sherlock turned within the circle of John's arms, placed both hands on John's face, and kissed him on the forehead. "It's cold. Shall we lie down?"

"All right..."

While John pulled his jumper over his head, Sherlock moved the revolver from on top of the bedspread and slid it underneath the pillow. Then he got into bed and made room for John. Once John had curled up close beside him, he covered them both up, put his arms around John, and took a deep breath.

"I've missed you so much," Sherlock murmured and made a satisfied humming sound.

"I've missed you too... you have no idea how much..." John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck and drew a relieved breath of air into his lungs. Sherlock's scent, so unique and so familiar, surrounded him like a cocoon. Their shared body heat slowly drove the cold out of their bones.

After several minutes of silence, Sherlock began to speak. "The original plan was to take Moriarty into custody on the bridge, even put him out of commission if need be. Mycroft's people were stationed under the bridge, waiting to spring into action. But when I told Moriarty that Moran had failed, he completely lost it. I pulled him over the railing to prevent him from shooting one of us."

John realised immediately that 'us' meant 'you', but rather than addressing that point, he squeezed Sherlock a little harder.

"Despite my efforts, a shot went off as we fell and hit me. The impact with the water did the rest. Multiple fractures, contusions, and respiratory distress. Mycroft's people pulled Moriarty and me out of the water, but I was already unconscious by then. I was put into an artificial coma and didn't wake up until a good seven weeks later."

"Can I have a look?" John asked and sat up. Sherlock gazed up at John for a moment, considering, then unbuttoned his shirt and spread the two halves. The oval scar lay just under Sherlock's ribcage and had healed well. The new skin had a reddish hue and shimmered faintly in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. John reverently ran his fingers over it, feeling its texture.

Tears prickled behind John's eyelids again, but he blinked them away, let the air out of his lungs in a short burst, and leaned over to deposit a single kiss on the scar. He rested his ear against Sherlock's chest and listened to the steady beating. To the life that still resided in his body. Sherlock's arms encircled him, stroking his head and back.

"Go on."

"I was beside myself when Mycroft told me that I had been officially declared deceased. I couldn't believe he was doing such a thing to me. That I wasn't to see you again. But according to the information from Mycroft's agents, Moriarty's network is still active, and thus a threat to anyone close to me – despite the fact that Moriarty is being held in a cell in a high-security prison. Officially removing me from the equation was supposed to gain us a huge advantage over the individual gangs. I could have worked undiscovered – at least for a little while – done as much damage as possible, and would have then gone underground for an indeterminate length of time. In order not to be vulnerable to attack again, however, I wouldn't have been allowed to return to London..." Sherlock elucidated calmly, but the bitter tone in his voice was clear.

"You would have sacrificed your life, your identity, for the greater good. Not just for me and your friends in London, but for everyone who was threatened by Moriarty's people..." John realised with a combination of profound unease and incredulous admiration.

"We still don't know how extensive Moriarty's network actually is. While my wounds were healing and I was subjected to both physical and psychotherapy, Mycroft tried unsuccessfully to get any usable information out of Moriarty."

John chuckled softly. "Did the therapists already turn in their letters of resignation?"

"One or two, perhaps..." Sherlock replied with a mischievous grin. "At any rate, Mycroft had plans to send me to China to start disassembling Moriarty's network there."

"Yes, he told me."

Sherlock nodded. "But he was apparently mistaken with that."

When Sherlock didn't elaborate the point, they lay silently beside each other for a while, listening to each other breathing before John spoke again. "I can't believe I've got you back. I... God... You have no idea how I grieved for you..."

"John..."

"It's not an accusation, Sherlock. Victor helped me a lot during that time..."

"Victor?"

"Yeah, he told me a lot about you over the past few months... about your shared past."

"Like what, for example?"

"How the two of you met."

"Hm... how is he doing?"

"As well as can be expected given the circumstances, I'd say; no better than I was," John said, and tightened his grip around Sherlock's waist before lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock's penetrating gaze. He realised there was much more to say on the topic of Victor Trevor, but this wasn't the right time, even if he didn't want to keep what had happened between him and Victor secret from Sherlock forever. All of those thoughts must have been written all over John's face, if he was interpreting Sherlock's expression correctly. When had he ever been able to keep anything from Sherlock?

"We even visited your parents in Sussex," John tried to circumnavigate the unspoken topic.

"I know." Sherlock brushed some strands of hair off John's forehead. "I was there."

John looked up in surprise. "What?!"

"I was there... I heard you. My mother showed you pictures of Sherrinford."

"You were in your room! That's why she didn't want me to look at it, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded the confirmation. "Yes... and it drove me barmy that I couldn't come out. That I couldn't come to you and tell you I was alive. Mycroft had just barely had enough time to inform our parents that you were on your way, otherwise everything would have been over. He was so worked up about it... it would have been funny if it hadn't been breaking my heart at the same time."

John kissed the sad smile off Sherlock's lips. He was utterly floored by all the sneaking around that had been going on around him over the last few months. All the pain that not only he and Victor, but Sherlock as well, had had to endure – and now it hadn't even led to the desired result. Not that John was precisely unhappy about Sherlock's mission being aborted, but all of the suffering that had been gone through now seemed so senseless and bitter.

"I love you."

"I love you too..." Sherlock whispered and captured John's lips once more in a kiss. "I was afraid I'd never be able to tell you that. You can't imagine how much I regretted never having said it to you directly when I had the chance." He pulled John's head down into the crook of his neck and put both arms possessively around John's body. "You should sleep a bit."

John chuckled softly. "You can strike that notion right now. I'm not letting you out of my sight for a single minute!"

 

+++

tbc

 

 


	33. Saturday, 26.01.2013 (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

John kissed his way lazily down Sherlock's neck, dug his teeth into the sensitive spot underneath Sherlock's ear, and breathed in the other man's familiar scent. Sherlock inhaled sharply and grasped a handful of John's hair, pulling him closer, as John's fingers slipped inside Sherlock's open shirt, stroking his warm skin.

"I've missed this so much. Missed you. Like part of myself. Not just part of my heart, but part of my body. I couldn't breathe properly without you. The entire time," John whispered between tender kisses.

"I'm... sorry, John..." Sherlock's deep voice vibrated in his long throat as John traced it with his tongue, eliciting a cut-off sigh.

"Not your fault," John replied, brushing dark curls off Sherlock's forehead. They'd lost some of their gleam over the intervening months, were uncombed and tangled. Sherlock had dark circles beneath his eyes and sunken cheeks. Signs of malnutrition and dehydration. It would take a while for John to nurse him back to proper health, but right now John couldn't think of anything nicer than being there for his beloved Sherlock.

He'd do anything in his power to protect Sherlock. From Sherrinford, from Moriarty, from the whole world if need be. Nobody would ever get between them again without taking on John Watson as an obstacle to be taken seriously.

Sherlock made a doubtful sound. "I panicked and pulled Moriarty over the railing..."

"If you hadn't done that, Moriarty's people might have caught up with us already. You did the only thing that seemed logical in that fraction of a second, Sherlock. And believe me, it's not easy for me to admit that. I was so furious that you'd left me behind. But it wasn't you I was actually angry with, it was Moriarty. He was the one who'd pushed you to that point. I just don't want... something like that to happen again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock hummed a confirmation and slipped his hand underneath John's t-shirt, moving it in circles on John's back. It must have been long past midnight by now, but John wasn't sleepy. His right thumb kept caressing Sherlock's waist and his lips brushed over every bit of skin they could reach. John slid down off Sherlock and turned onto his back, pulling Sherlock with him. He pushed Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders and tossed it aside.

"Let me feel your weight on top of me, yeah?"

Sherlock complied with a silent nod, placing one leg between John's knees and supporting himself with his elbows on either side of John's head. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, stretched his neck, and kissed his way across Sherlock's collarbone and up his neck until he arrived at his plump lips. Fascinated, he observed Sherlock's blissful expression, the softened lines and the arc of his dark eyelashes.

He stroked over the curve of Sherlock's back, tracing the prominent vertebrae and feeling the play of muscles under his skin. The weight and heat of Sherlock's body was comforting. Just right. When Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, John met him with open lips. Tongue touched tongue, moist and demanding.

John sighed and tightened his grip on Sherlock, running his hand over his narrow hips and the slope of his arse. The adrenaline from the day was still rushing through his veins, making his head buzz and his body hum as he reacted to all of the stimuli. He grasped a handful of curls in one hand and tilted Sherlock's head slightly so that he could deepen the kiss.

He felt quite clearly as a shiver ran through Sherlock, and a sigh wended its way out somewhere between their mouths. Sherlock's arms were trembling. Without interrupting the kiss, he shifted his weight onto his right arm, pushed John's t-shirt up with his left hand, and continued caressing every centimetre thus revealed. Through the material of their trousers, John felt Sherlock getting harder and harder until his erection lay heavy against John's thigh, making the pleasurable tingling in his stomach suddenly skyrocket.

Sherlock sat up to help John struggle out of his t-shirt, then tossed it carelessly off the bed. John's jeans and underwear followed moments later. He interlaced their fingers, pushed John back down onto the sheets, and kissed a trail from John's shoulder down to one of his nipples, which he then suckled between his teeth, nibbling it gently. John's breath caught. He arched up toward Sherlock, moaning softly and clasping Sherlock's fingers.

Arousal surged through John, prickling along his arms and legs. He wanted everything at once, wanted to join himself irrevocably with Sherlock, to never let him go, to touch him, kiss him, and make him shiver. Wanted to brand Sherlock's skin, mark him with his teeth, and send him on flights of ecstasy. Wanted to consummate their reunion.

Since Sherlock was still holding him down, John ran one foot up the back of Sherlock's thigh, trying to pull him in closer. "Take your clothes off," he ordered, reaching for buttons and flies himself when Sherlock finally let his hands go and sat up. Breathing hard, John yanked the black fabric down to Sherlock's knees, kissing his way across Sherlock's chest and stomach and stroking the backs of his thighs.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sherlock's black briefs, stroked the bulge with his thumbs, and slowly pulled the material down past the milky white skin. He encircled Sherlock's erection reverently, tracing it with his fingertips and feeling its familiar shape. Sherlock's breath caught. His hands rested on John's shoulders, holding him gently at his nape and reaching up into his blond hair. 

John looked up into Sherlock's blazing eyes and tugged him down so he could kiss him. After sorting out their arms and legs and freeing Sherlock from his trousers, he settled on top of John again, both arms wrapped around him. Skin on skin from head to foot. John sighed into the crook of Sherlock's neck and dug his fingers so hard into Sherlock's back that it hurt.

"I'm so glad you're here with me again..."

"Me too," Sherlock replied softly and dotted kisses across John's face, nipping happily at his lips and playing with his tongue.

John braced his feet against the mattress, lifted his pelvis up toward Sherlock, and caught the soft sigh that fell from his lips when John's erection brushed against his.

"John," Sherlock panted and circled his hips insistently.

"Yeah... yeah... come on, don't stop."

They latched on with nails and teeth in each other's skin and hair, frantically rubbing their overheated bodies together. Mindlessly sighing each other's names and sentimental phrases into the scant few millimetres of space between them. Tender lips on gooseflesh. The sweet pain of bursting blood vessels where they bit down. Nerve endings on fire. Shivering and shaking.

They danced on the plateau of their desire and their love, getting drunk on each other, driving each other ever onward in their ecstasy, clasping each other firmly in the moments of their climaxes.

John couldn't look away. Maybe he was afraid Sherlock would disappear if he closed his eyes for so much as the blink of an eye. He didn't want to miss anything. Not the slightest twitch of that beloved face. Not a single breath. Not a one of the many emotions in those silvery-blue eyes. And at the same time, he wanted to give everything of himself, to show everything, be utterly exposed and open.

Their hunger for each other barely ebbed. They stroked warm, damp skin, held each other in their arms, and didn't stop kissing until exhaustion won the upper hand. They lay beneath the cover, intimately entwined, enjoying the closeness they'd had to do without for so long.

John raked his fingers across Sherlock's head where it lay nestled against his neck, combing through his tangled hair. He listened to Sherlock's steady breaths, to his own heart beating, and gazed down at the other man.

"Why did you never tell me about him? That you had another brother? Or have..." he asked quietly, worried that Sherlock would push him away at any moment and try to flee again. He didn't want his fumbling words to cause Sherlock to withdraw, and yet the question was burning a hole in his soul.

Sherlock tensed immediately, as expected. John could feel the flight instinct in his muscles. He rubbed Sherlock's back to soothe him, trying to communicate the sense of security he needed. The certainty that John didn't intend to hurt or embarrass him.

"I often dream about him ..." Sherlock's voice was barely more than a whisper inside their cosy, warm nest. "I sometimes see him standing in front of me; other times it's just his voice speaking to me. Sometimes he's a faceless shape leaning over me. A black mass. But I always know it's him. There are nights... nights in which I wake up in a panic, disoriented. Scared. He scares me. I've never told you about him because I... I don't want to have to think about him. Do you understand? Even six years after his death, he's still very much present in my subconscious."

John grunted his understanding but didn't say anything more. Sherrinford had obviously had a huge impact on Sherlock and left behind a path of destruction that had cut deeply into Sherlock's psyche. The fear that Sherlock mentioned prompted more questions than answers, however.

"Did he... touch you?" John asked carefully.

"Are you seriously asking whether he abused me?" Sherlock retorted aghast.

John shrugged. "Things like that... happen more often than you might think..."

Sherlock sat up and looked at John, stunned. "What makes you think that?"

Contrite, John brushed a couple of stray locks of hair off Sherlock's forehead. "I mean it makes sense, doesn't it? The things you've described... The fact that he still frightens you even today... It sounds like reports from victims of sexual assault."

Sherlock blurted out an incredulous laugh that ended abruptly in a cut-off snort. "No. Nothing like that at all. He killed my dog, John. He poisoned him over months, kept meticulous notes on it, and left the proof behind for me, all in order to... I don't know... to show me how weak sentiment makes you."

"That's... horrible. But that wasn't all, was it?"

Sherlock hesitated before nuzzling his face deeper into John's neck. "No."

"Did he frighten you earlier too?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?" John kept rubbing Sherlock's back, holding him as close as possible to give him a sense of security and comfort.

"Nothing. That's just it... He didn't do anything. In fact, he was always quite solicitous with me. Not like Mycroft. He was patronising. But Sherrinford... he always kept an eye out for me. I was the baby of the family and he was my big brother. He often read me fairy tales, I still remember that..."

Upon hearing that, John let out an inadvertent snarl that he tried to cover up by clearing his throat.

"I know... doesn't sound much like a coincidence, does it? But everyone always found him very considerate. He sat by my bed every night and told me stories. Some I never found in any book. He probably invented them himself. I still remember how he told me the story of the silent prince. Over and over. I knew it by heart. Even as a young child, the prince knew that people only said bad things about each other and decided never to speak again. Everyone around him praised him and was happy he never said anything stupid. So he kept up his silence and was quite happy with it. Along the lines of 'talk is cheap, silence is golden'."

"Sherlock, your mutism..."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally and rubbed his nose against John's neck as he took a deep breath. "I don't know if it was all connected or not. I was occupied with my own thoughts as a child. Everything else was too much for me. The stimuli, the noise, the constant chatter from other people. I needed to learn how to filter it all. Sherrinford was the one who taught Mycroft and myself the mind palace technique. And so I started to catalogue my feelings along with all the information I absorbed, and to lock them away. To make myself unassailable. It annoyed me how my parents and Mycroft were constantly trying to get me to talk, how they took me to all those inane therapists and said I was ill. But all the words were right there in my head the whole time. I could have invalidated all of their ridiculous attempts at therapy, but I didn't want to. It was all so... tiresome. But then Redbeard arrived and I suddenly needed to speak. The notion of having to remain silent in order to be deemed acceptable was gone overnight. I wanted to play with Redbeard, to have adventures with him," Sherlock said, swallowing hard.

"No one else seemed to care that I was finally speaking. But sometimes on those evenings after Sherrinford had told me a story, he upbraided me for some nonsense or other I'd spouted during the day. He said that Mummy, Dad, and Mycroft were complaining about all of my lies and wished I'd be quiet again but didn't want to tell me directly because they were afraid of my temper."

"Temper?" John asked, furrowing his brow.

"I may have had one or two tantrums... I don't really recall."

"What else?"

"Nothing, John. He didn't do anything to me, all right? He didn't abuse me, he didn't hit me. He didn't do anything. On the contrary: he took the blame several times for things that I'd done wrong..."

"Like what?"

"Oh, just things that kids do..."

"Tell me about them..."

Sherlock let out a pained sigh. "The usual stuff. Ate the last of the biscuits or ruined Mycroft's favourite book. Smeared paint on the wall. Although I think I was caught red-handed in that instance. I don't recall where I had the paint from, however... Then there was the fire in the garden shed..."

"Fire in the garden shed? What were you doing?" John asked, sceptical but curious.

"Hmm..." Sherlock mused and turned onto his back, reaching one hand up into his hair.

John promptly scooted closer to him, rested his chin on Sherlock's chest, and watched him attentively.

"I can't remember exactly," Sherlock admitted. "I think Sherrinford got me out of bed one night and scolded me for being so irresponsible. We went outside and the shed was going up in flames. He patted my head and said he'd fix it all for me, that I shouldn't worry. I was so grateful to him. I wasn't speaking at that time, by the way.

"Another time, some of Mummy's papers went missing. I found them in my rucksack. I must have put them there by accident. Sherrinford took them and promised not to tell her as long as I never did anything like that again."

The pattern to Sherlock's stories was obvious to see, yet Sherlock didn't seem to be aware of it at all. It was strange to see Sherlock so adrift. As if he were completely blind when it came to his eldest brother.

"Have you ever heard of the term 'gaslighting'?" John asked, glancing up at Sherlock.

"Yes... although I didn't make the connection until much later. It's still difficult for me to determine how much was manipulation on his part and what wasn't. I wanted to tell my family, to ask them for help. But... it was already too late. He..." Sherlock broke off and took a strained breath, choking back the tears that were threatening.

"Hey..." John said huskily, stroking his cheek.

Several tense seconds passed before Sherlock had collected himself enough to continue speaking. His voice was raw with grief. "He left something for me before he was taken away. A letter." John immediately thought of the box that Mycroft had mentioned to him, and knew that whatever Sherlock was going to say next had to do with Redbeard's death. Still, he wanted to let Sherlock tell the story himself.

"It said that Redbeard had been poisoned because I hadn't watched out for him. That I was responsible for his death because I hadn't taken good enough care of him. It was at that point that I realised there was something wrong with the things he'd been trying to teach me, since I would have done anything for Redbeard. He was my best friend; my only friend. The poison was in the box that Sherrinford had left for me. He obviously didn't care anymore whether I found out the truth about him or not. He had poisoned the dog food. But the thing was... he never fed Redbeard... I did."

"Oh... oh, God... Sherlock... " John stared at Sherlock, devastated. His heart clenched painfully at the sight of the other man's desolate expression. He hugged Sherlock as hard as he could, virtually wrapping himself around him and rocking him back and forth as he trembled. "It's not your fault, you hear? Not your fault."

Sherlock clung to John like a drowning man. His fingers dug so hard into John's arm and shoulder that it hurt, but John was happy to put up with it if the only thing he could offer Sherlock was to be there for him.

"None of it was your fault. He was playing some sick game with you ever since you were a kid; he manipulated you and used you. You couldn't have done anything about it. After all, you grew up under his influence, for you it was normal. I can't believe that no one ever knew anything about it!" With a combination of unbridled anger and helpless despair, John cursed Sherrinford for his cruel behaviour. He was tormented by the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing he could do about such appalling manipulation of the innocent child Sherlock had once been.

"I've never... told anyone about it, John," Sherlock said softly and sniffled. "I couldn't. I didn't want to live with the guilt."

"That's why you overdosed... Mycroft told me about it. And about the accident with that woman, your and Victor's friend." John couldn't for the life of him remember her name.

"It was no accident..." Sherlock objected. "I was never able to prove it, but I'm absolutely certain that she was murdered. She was in the way... she wanted to protect me..."

"Do you think... Sherrinford might have had something to do with it?" John asked cautiously, smoothing down Sherlock's ravaged curls.

Sherlock shook his head. "No... he was already in prison at the time. How could he have been involved? It's impossible."

"Yeah..." John agreed and sighed softly. "I guess you're right."

 

******

 

Shortly after sunrise, John, Sherlock, and Mary left the safe house in Switzerland and drove back to the small private airfield. On the way, Mary got in touch with the pilot so that he could make all the necessary arrangements and there would be no delay in their departure.

Once on board, John and Sherlock sat next to each other; they didn't speak, but their hands were clasped, resting on the armrest between them. Both were lost in their own thoughts, uncertain about what might be coming.

They were about halfway to London when Mary received a message over the secure connection on board. She leapt up hastily. "Mr Holmes... your brother..." She passed her netbook to Sherlock, pressing her lips together tersely.

When Sherlock scanned the short text, his eyes widened in disbelief. All of the colour drained from his face. Concerned, John leaned over to have a look at the screen.

His heart skipped a beat.

 _Moriarty has escaped._  
_Immediate security measures initiated for MLH, VT, GL._  
_Rendezvous ASAP sec. 6 – MH_

 

******

 

Approximately 800 kilometres away, a man recalled the first time he met Sherlock Holmes. How innocent, fragile, and indescribably beautiful he had been.

He watched the ashes on the end of his cigarette glow as he sucked on it, and blew the smoke up into the morning sky over the Thames. He carelessly tapped his fingers against the filter, flicking the ashes over the turquoise railing, then watched as they were carried off by the East wind, and smiled.

 

+++

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: MLH stands for Martha Louise Hudson. http://bakerstreet.wikia.com/wiki/Martha_Louise_Hudson
> 
> This chapter is largely indebted to Belladonna, who pulled me out of the plot swamp and helped more than a little with formulating the gaslighting. :D *hugs*


	34. March 1999

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!
> 
> +++
> 
>  **Warning:** Depiction of drug use and violence!

The last few rays of the setting sun fractured in the broken window glass, bouncing off the sharp edges and catching on the dust particles dancing across the room.

There was a scraping sound from the flint wheel, sparks, flame, then the click of the lighter lid closing. The half-burnt down candle created a flickering circle of light, casting its shadow on the smeared wall.

He sniffled. His reddened eyes fixed on the wick, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. His hands were shaking. Filth under his chewed-down fingernails, a smudge of dirt on his cheek, greasy hair.

The mattress springs groaned underneath him when he scooted back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest. He buried his head in the cradle of his crossed arms, rocking back and forth. Muttering nonsense to drive off the lurking shadows.

His forehead had broken out in a sweat. He was cold and in pain. Obvious signs of the withdrawal roiling inside him. It wouldn't take much longer.

A magnificent sight. Just like one of those storybook orphans. Fragile and in despair. Lost. He didn't belong here.

Someone screamed out in the hall, trying to scare off his demons. Or the vultures. He jerked, looking around like a deer that had been startled out of the underbrush. His dilated pupils crowded out the dull blue. The frantic throbbing of his carotid artery was clearly visible in his thin neck.

The outside sounds died away, and he relaxed markedly. He glanced over at the door once more, checking, then shrugged off his jeans jacket, pushed up the sleeve of his thin jumper as far as he could, and unbuckled his belt. Nervous fingers coaxed the leather through the belt loops, quickly wrapped it around his arm, and pulled it tight.

The syringe on its satin cushion in the long box gleamed in the light of the candle. He hesitated, debating with his tired mind over the right and wrong of what he was about to do. But it was all too clear that he'd lost the fight a long time ago.

He inhaled with a hiss when the needle pierced his thin skin. Did he know that the cocktail was probably too much for his emaciated body?

Just at the moment when he'd pushed the plunger all the way to the bottom of the syringe and the drug rushed into his blood, I swung down from the wooden crate and stepped out of the shadows. I knew that I had less than a minute before the effects set in.

"I'd hoped that our reunion would be under different circumstances, but then... you wouldn't have recognised me anyway."

I didn't know whether the twitching in his arms and legs was caused by the drug, or whether I should take it as a response to my words. A futile attempt to escape. I plopped myself down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg, and grinned broadly.

Some blunted part of his consciousness sounded an alarm. But his limbs were already boneless, flopping uselessly onto the grimy mattress. The syringe drooped impotently between the long fingers of his right hand.

"You're much cuter up close!" I laid one hand on his thigh, rubbing the dusty fabric of his trousers and digging in my nails. A sweet little shudder ran through him before he pushed me away with a distinct lack of coordination.

"It's a shame you don't get on better with your brother... I could quite easily picture myself becoming part of your little clan..."

His bloodshot eyes wandered over me lethargically, but he was barely aware of me anymore. The high was clouding his mind. I leaned over to him, twisted his face toward me, and bumped the tip of his nose with mine. My thumbs traced his raw lips, pushing them apart without meeting any resistance.

"We could have had so much fun together... But I guess we'll just have to make use of what little time we've got, right, sexy?" I said in a hushed voice and was just about to kiss him when rapid footsteps from the direction of the door made me look up.

"Sherlock!" The woman's desperate voice made me grind my teeth. Why did she have to turn up now, of all times? Why express all this unnecessary concern and ruin these few moments I had with Sherlock?!

Not even the expression of shock that came over her boring face when she interrupted our intimate scene was able to provide me any satisfaction. I could virtually read her panicked attempt to make sense of the situation. The belt, the drugs, the apathetic look – all apparently not unfamiliar to her.

On the other hand, I didn't quite seem to fit into the picture. Was I another junkie who was trying to wrestle Sherlock over the drugs? Or the dealer who had supplied her friend with the psychotropic substance? What seemed to irritate her the most was my hand, which was resting on Sherlock's thigh again and lazily tracing the inner seam of his trousers. Possessive. Intimate.

"Get away from him!" she ordered, assuming what was probably meant to be a threatening pose directly in front of me. I stood, charmed at so much foolishness, gave her the space she required, and walked slowly around her. She felt my presence like a cold draught on the back of her neck, but her concern over Sherlock was stronger than her unease.

She knelt down, patted his cheek and forehead, and tried unsuccessfully to get his attention. She eventually gave up and whirled around to face me.

"He needs to get to a hospital right away! What did he take?"

I shrugged indifferently. "Doesn't matter. He's here to die."

"What?! You can't be serious!" she cried, alarmed. "I won't let that happen!"

"But that's the whole reason I'm here! To prevent some good Samaritan from turning up at the last second and butting into this beautiful scene. Don't you see that I'm only respecting his wishes and giving him exactly what he needs?" My sinister smile didn't seem to convince her.

"Get lost, you arsewipe!" she railed with courage borne of desperation, her expression twisted with rage.

I took a couple of steps back, giggling, and watched as she grabbed Sherlock's arm, draped it over her shoulder, and tried to heave his limp body onto its feet. The sight was simply too amusing! Although his emaciated form couldn't have been very heavy, she couldn't manage it even after several attempts.

Sherlock sank back against the wall again and felt around on the mattress for the syringe, as if needing to guard it, muttering nonsensical words.

Resignation passed over her face when she downgraded the likelihood of getting Sherlock outside to impossible. She leapt to her feet and strode resolutely toward the door, presumably to fetch help.

How naïve she was to think that I'd simply let her go...

Just as she got to the door, I picked up half a brick and ran after her. She wasn't fast enough to reach the stairwell before the stone crashed down on her skull and she dropped to the floor like a sack of wet cement.

Disappointed at the lack of resistance of any kind, I let the brick fall next to her body and clapped the dirt off my hands. Well, that hadn't gone to plan at all. Feeling rather disgruntled, I took the thin leather gloves out of the pocket of my jacket and put them on before lifting the woman under her arms and dragging her through the open door of an empty flat nearby. Opportunely, there were only two other junkies inside, and they were no longer aware of what was going on around them.

I moved the body into a corner and was about to return to Sherlock, fearing I would miss the grand finale otherwise. I stopped just in time when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Based on the gait and the tempo, I could tell that they didn't belong to another lost soul seeking refuge, but to someone who didn't actually want to be here.

I peered around the corner and rolled my eyes in annoyance when the man appeared in my field of vision. His face was only too familiar to me, even though I'd never met him in person. Mycroft Holmes. What a charming coincidence. Fortunately, he turned down the corridor in the right direction; it wasn't my intention for our first face-to-face meeting to be here. After all, corpses tended to scare off potential business partners.

When Mycroft finally discovered the lifeless fawn, I snuck after him to get an eyeful of their interaction.

I was surprised that Mycroft didn't immediately panic, ring the police and an ambulance, and drag Sherlock back from the verge of death. In fact, he did just the opposite: he observed the scene with a certain degree of detachment that I would never have thought him capable of. It truly did seem to run in the family! And then before I could blink twice, Mycroft did an about face and left the room where his brother lay dying. What a fascinating development!

I waited until Mycroft was out of hearing range before returning to Sherlock. He was clearly delirious, twitching and flopping helplessly around like a fish on dry land.

I wasn't at all enamoured of the prospect of tossing this little plaything aside just like that, simply because it no longer worked the way its owner wanted it to. Not when I could still have _so_ much fun with it!

But maybe... maybe all I needed to do was a little convincing in order to get what I wanted. Maybe Sherlock could become the perfect ammunition if I eventually wanted to get rid of Sherrinford and Mycroft. Both brothers were obviously willing to let their baby brother die; and wouldn't it be simply delicious to rub their noses in that guilt just at the right moment?

I took out my phone from my trouser pocket, entered the number for emergency services, and described what had happened, pretending to be frantic. After that I crouched down in front of Sherlock, brushed the damp curls off his forehead, and kissed him tenderly on his breath-taking lips.

Oh yes: this wouldn't be the last time we saw each other. I swore a solemn oath to myself that I would win him over for myself, that he would belong to me one day – and no one else.

"Wrong day to die, sexy!" I smiled as I stood up and strolled to the door, glancing back one last time at the shape which lay there collapsed in on itself, before I left the abandoned flat. Out in the hall, I picked up the half brick with my fingerprints on it and turned it over in my hand as I walked whistling down the stairs.

Outside, I found an inconspicuous corner where I dropped the brick and leaned against the wall to wait for the ambulance.

The narrow lane was filled with blue lights just a short while later. Paramedics and police officers entered the building, and passers-by stuck their curious heads into the entryway. Sherlock was carried out on a stretcher and lifted into the ambulance. They'd got there in time. Good.

Satisfied with myself and the world at large, I strolled down the road, whistling a tune as I thought about where and when we would meet next.

 

+++

tbc


	35. Saturday, 26.01.2013 (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

They barely spoke during the flight. John and Sherlock were both too wound up and in shock following the arrival of Mycroft's message. Naturally, they wondered how Moriarty could possibly have escaped from MI5's high-security detainment facility, but at the same time the answer seemed to be as obvious as the hand in front of their face.

Someone had helped him. Someone had let Moriarty out and got him past the other guards unnoticed. Someone who knew that Sherlock was on his way back to London.

At least Mycroft had reacted promptly and made sure that Sherlock and John's friends were brought to a secure location. They were probably already on their way to a safe house somewhere. Although there as well, the question arose as to whether the agent who had been assigned that task was trustworthy. Maybe Mycroft had already uncovered the mole. But they wouldn't know until they landed.

John gritted his teeth as he thought of Mrs Hudson, Greg, and Victor, and everything the three of them had already been through thanks to Moriarty. Mrs Hudson wouldn't make any trouble; she'd follow Mycroft's instructions easily. Greg, on the other hand, working as he did for Scotland Yard, would likely need a little more convincing to be moved out of the line of fire. After all, he was a man who was used to dealing with criminals, and wouldn't want to relinquish control so easily.

John didn't even want to hazard a guess regarding Victor. On the one hand, John could well imagine that the memory of the incident in the Rose Playhouse would be incentive enough to make Victor cooperate. On the other hand, it was also plausible that Victor was simply nowhere to be found because he was hanging out in some club again. Or he'd send Mycroft's agents away with a rude hand gesture and go into hiding for the foreseeable future...

John sent Sherlock a worried glance. Sherlock had completely withdrawn into his mind palace and was probably feverishly planning what the next step would be. The double threat from Moriarty and Sherrinford carved deep lines in his forehead. It wasn't the excitement of a new case which was occupying him; rather, it was the undercurrent of apprehension that he was dealing with not one, but two men who took pleasure in playing mind games with him. Men who didn't simply see Sherlock as an annoying obstacle, but enjoyed doing him harm.

John put his hand over Sherlock's and squeezed it gently, drawing Sherlock's attention. He tried to give him an encouraging smile, but Sherlock didn't seem to be fully present.

John sighed and turned to look out the window, keeping an eye out for the airfield.

 

******

 

As soon as they landed and the door of the private plane was unlocked, a team of four agents in combat gear stormed the tiny cabin. They approached the surprised passengers with their pistols raised.

"Sir," the front man curtly greeted Sherlock. His gun was aimed directly at Mary. "Alison Ashworth, you are under arrest as an accomplice to the escape of James Moriarty."

"What...?! She was with us the whole time!" John protested, but the agents wouldn't budge.

A couple of flicks of the wrist later and Mary had been relieved of her service pistol and placed in handcuffs. She acquiesced silently to the procedure, but her displeasure was clear.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock snapped, pulling himself up out of his seat in order to exit the plane. John unbuckled himself, bewildered, and followed. He paused at the door to look back at Mary doubtfully. She returned his look with stoic composure and let herself be led her away without resisting.

Sherlock had stuffed his hands into the pockets of his winter coat and observed grimly as a black town car rolled onto the landing strip. Anthea climbed out of the passenger side, her phone in her hand as usual, and approached the two men.

"Welcome back, sir. I'll take you to your brother. Please get in."

"What about Mary? I mean Agent Ashworth..." John asked, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

"She'll have to make do with a cell for the time being until she can be interrogated. Please hurry, Mr Holmes doesn't like to be kept waiting."

John frowned and climbed into the back of the car behind Sherlock while Anthea resumed her position in the front passenger seat. The driver executed a turn and drove off the airfield. In the rear view mirror, John saw Mary being brought out of the plane and bundled into a dark blue van.

 

******

 

When they arrived in the subterranean office of Section 6, there was no exchange of brotherly affection between Sherlock and Mycroft. But then it probably hadn't been seven months since the last time the two of them had seen each other, John thought, and twisted his mouth grimly.

"You think it was Agent Ashworth?" Sherlock snorted disdainfully in lieu of a greeting. "How do you figure that?" He was virtually vibrating with nervous energy. He obviously had no intention of sitting down and discussing the new developments with his brother calmly. Instead, he paced up and down in the small, dim room, as if he were bound and determined to walk a furrow into the parquet flooring.

"Digital fingerprint. She was the last one who logged into the system and unlocked the door to Moriarty's cell," Mycroft explained, interlacing his long fingers on top of the desk. His aloof gaze tracked Sherlock across the room, once in a while briefly jumping to John.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks abruptly and narrowed his eyes at his brother. "The system cannot be triggered from the outside, and John and I can attest that she was in our proximity the entire time. Additionally: what sense would it make for her to fly back with us, given that she would have to assume she would be placed under immediate arrest? If she really worked for Moriarty, wouldn't she have brought us straight to him?"

"Obviously," Mycroft retorted. "However, she seems to have snuck a hack into the system that unlocked both the cell and all of the doors leading out of the prison at a pre-specified time. She didn't need to be present at the moment when the escape occurred."

"Returning here was still completely absurd if she was responsible for it. The whole thing might be a bluff to distract suspicion from the true culprit and waste our time!" Sherlock was visibly upset. The entire situation was slowly but surely getting out of hand. On top of everything else, he and John had only dozed a little during the night, and despite the burst of adrenaline that the news of Moriarty's escape had triggered, they were both completely exhausted.

"Or a double bluff. The fact is that we don't know which side Agent Ashworth is on. But I prefer to take her into custody and have more than one set of eyes on her than to be taught a lesson later!" Mycroft countered forcefully.

"All right, fine!" Sherlock huffed and dropped onto one of the chairs, crossing his arms.

Anthea entered with a tray and poured coffee into two cups, one of which she set down in front of Sherlock, the other in front of John. Grateful, John took a big sip and hoped that the caffeine would take effect soon.

"How are we supposed to proceed then if we can't trust any of your agents?"

"The fact that Moriarty escaped precisely today cannot be a coincidence. The likelihood that he's in cahoots with Sherrinford in some manner or other is becoming more probable, unfortunately. At a minimum, he knows about Sherrinford and the letters. The references to the fairy tales. Why else would Moriarty have made use of fairy tales to leave clues to the kidnappings?" Mycroft mused, speaking to no one in particular. Lost in thought, he let his gaze wander across the desk.

"Why the game? Why go to all this trouble? What's the point of it all?" Sherlock's eyes darted aimlessly around the tiny office as he tried to put together the pieces of the puzzle in his mind's eye.

Mycroft grimaced tetchily but didn't have an answer either. "Mrs Hudson, D.I. Lestrade, and Victor Trevor have all arrived safely – if not particularly pleased – at the secure safe house. We haven't told them anything about your return as yet, only that a threat was made against your friends. As usual, they have been relieved of all communication devices so that they are more difficult to trace. In other words, you needn't go to the trouble of attempting to contact them."

John's mouth stretched into a facsimile of a smile. He was worried about the three of them, and would have liked to speak to them in order to make sure they were doing okay. But that would have to wait, apparently. He suppressed a yawn. His brain seemed to be running at half capacity. Fatigue crawled through his body. He poured himself some more coffee, drank some of it, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A hand touched his arm.

"John, you should lie down..." Sherlock was looking at him with concern. "We'll probably be sitting here for a while, discussing things." The 'and you can't contribute anything to that' remained unspoken but was audible in his friend's voice.

"Er... yeah. Yes, probably not a bad idea."

"Anthea will escort you to another room where you can rest," Mycroft said and slid John's phone across the table to him. "You can have this back now. We'll call you when we need your opinion."

"Okay..." John took his phone, stood up, and placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing gently. He was actually extremely reluctant to let Sherlock out of his sight. But if he were just a few metres away, he might still be able to sleep a bit. There was no way the two brothers would let John just sit here and take a nap.

John followed Anthea with mixed feelings. The assistant brought John to a rather generously sized room furnished with a sitting area, television, and bookshelves. It had the air of a high-class waiting room for VIP guests. The couch alone with its brocade upholstery looked more expensive than all the furniture John had ever owned combined. It was wide enough that he wouldn't have any problem stretching out on it. Next to it was a low coffee table made of dark wood, on which stood a silver tray with glasses and small water bottles.

"Make yourself comfortable, John. I'll just check whether I can scare up a blanket for you."

John thanked her and sat down on the couch. He slipped out of his half-boots so as not to leave any dirt on the expensive fabric before lying down. His overworked muscles and bones complained, aching, as the fatigue weighed his limbs down like lead.

 

******

 

Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration. More than two hours had passed, but he and Mycroft hadn't got any further. They'd gone through all the facts again, all the certificates regarding Sherrinford's death along with the fairy tale letters and reports from MI5 and MI6's systems about the cases he'd worked on.

It was clear to both men that Sherrinford Holmes didn't exist any more. Both of them had seen him in his coffin, had attended his funeral and stood by until the grave was filled with dirt. Since then, they had never heard another word about their elder brother or his machinations.

Sherrinford was dead, and whoever had cropped up in his stead now to torture Sherlock with his childhood and adolescence, they must have been a close confidante of Sherrinford's all those years ago.

Sherlock's energy reserves were also about to hit bottom. He tried not to let on, but his restrained yawns didn't escape Mycroft's notice. Sighing, he put down his pen and looked over at Sherlock.

"All right, that's enough. You can barely keep your eyes open, and you're no good to me in this state. Lie down for a couple of hours and have something to eat. We can continue afterwards."

The fact that Sherlock merely curled his lip but didn't protest out loud, was additional confirmation of Mycroft's assessment. "I'll run everything through my head one more time. Maybe I'll see something we haven't thought of yet," Sherlock murmured as he stood up.

Mycroft nodded indulgently. "He's at the end of the hall, the room on the right. Oh, and Sherlock..." Sherlock paused, the door handle in his hand, and turned to face his brother. "It's nice to have you back."

Something tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, but it disappeared again so quickly that it wasn't certain whether it had been there at all. "What am I supposed to say to that?" he said sourly and left the tiny office.

Sherlock walked down the narrow corridor. There were additional doors, two on either side, which presumably led to other offices. He opened the last one on the right and entered the exclusive waiting room where John had gone to lie down. But John wasn't there.

Bewildered, Sherlock took a step closer to the couch, his laser-sharp eyes taking in the sparse furnishings. The seat cushion bore an indentation that showed someone must have been sitting there until quite recently, although it was no longer warm. John had probably gone to the loo or stepped out to find something to eat.

There was a half-filled water glass on the table, along with a white rectangular box. Something was stamped on the lid. Sherlock ran his fingers over the edges of the design and turned the box toward the light.

It was the silhouette of a bird in flight.

All of a sudden, there didn't seem to be any oxygen left in the room. Sherlock's lungs contracted painfully. Adrenaline rushed through his veins.

Shaking, he lifted the lid of the box and pushed it onto the table. Inside was a brass key resting on white velour, along with a miniature scroll that was bound with a red satin ribbon.

He slid the ribbon off and unrolled the parchment.

_Oh William,_

_It's a cold, harsh winter and you've lost your way while out looking for firewood in No Man's Land. The words of the King: when he's not lying, he's silent. Unwink your hood for once._

_SH_

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: The fairy tale referenced here is "The Golden Key":  
> <http://www.grimmstories.com/de/grimm_maerchen/der_goldene_schluessel>  
> <https://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm200.html>


	36. Saturday, 26.01.2013 (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

"John's gone!"

Mycroft, who had only sent Sherlock away a few minutes ago to have a short rest, looked up with annoyance from the pile of documents they'd been working their way through together a little while earlier.

"I can't find him anywhere!" Sherlock reported urgently, approaching his brother's massive desk with long strides. "This was in the room instead." Sherlock hastily dropped the white box that had been lying on the table in the waiting room into the middle of the papers and gave Mycroft a wild-eyed look. He pushed the lid off and took out the brass key, examined it for a moment, deep in thought, and finally slipped it into his trouser pocket.

"The same bird is stamped on it as on Sherrinford's letters, Mycroft! How in the world is it possible that he was able to smuggle John out of the building without being seen?!"

Mycroft lifted one eyebrow sceptically, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and the box. "Are you certain John is no longer on the premises?"

"Yes, damn it! He wouldn't have left the building without letting us know, and I checked in the rest of the offices, the kitchen, and the toilets. There's no trace of him. What about the security cameras? There must be a record of him being abducted!"

Sherlock was beside himself. His pulse was racing, his muscles quivering and poised for attack. Adrenaline had driven any remaining fatigue out of his body entirely. The thought that John might have fallen into Moriarty’s web – a web that Sherrinford had created - ate its way inexorably through his brain, settling in every cranny of his mind palace.

Images of the past crawled out of his subconscious, awakening a long-standing fear. The fear of loss. Redbeard. _John._ No, nothing like that could be allowed to happen again. He pressed his left fist against his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to focus on the here and now.

When he looked at Mycroft again, his throat constricted, only allowing him to take air in with a stuttering gasp. Consternation and disbelief were written all over Mycroft's face. A deep furrow had appeared between his eyebrows. His forehead was covered in a sheen of perspiration.

"What?! What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded.

"No one... appears anywhere." Mycroft turned the flat-screen monitor of his computer toward Sherlock. The screen was divided into four quadrants. Each one flipped between several cameras in different rooms and corridors. A strip of text at the top of the screen showed which time period from the past two hours was currently being displayed. In was true: not a single employee appeared on camera during the entire time.

"That's impossible..." Mycroft quickly reached for his mobile phone, tapped on the screen, and held the device up to his ear. His eyes kept flicking over to Sherlock; the tension that Sherlock was able to read on his brother's face didn't bode well.

After Mycroft had waited several miserably long seconds, he entered another number and stared at the screen as if he would be able to force a response from the person he was trying to contact.

"Mycroft..." Sherlock warned his brother, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His patience, already stretched nearly to its breaking point, was getting thinner and thinner. Every wasted second could have inconceivable consequences for John.

Mycroft broke off the unsuccessfully placed call and put the phone down on the table in front of him. He steepled his fingers and gave Sherlock a sombre look over the top of them.

"I can't reach Anthea."

Sherlock returned Mycroft's bewildered look. He'd never seen him so unsettled before. Anthea, Mycroft's personal assistant, his closest confidante, his right hand, his inseparable shadow.

"You don't think...?"

Mycroft glanced to one side, sobered, and folded his hands in order to conceal the subliminal tremors running through his body. "No..." The single word wasn't intended as an answer to Sherlock's question; it was infused with too much trepidation for that. "She couldn't..."

Sherlock knew from countless interactions with his brother that Anthea was always available when Mycroft called – no matter what the hour. That had been the most important part of her job description from day one. In return, the woman had benefitted from more free time than other employees in comparable positions. Mycroft – for whom trust didn't come easily in the first place – probably shared more secrets with her than with his own brother.

If it turned out that Anthea of all people was the one who had betrayed not only Mycroft but the entire British government and secret service, it was a disaster just waiting to happen. Someone with her security clearance must have virtually unlimited access to highly sensitive information. Information that some people would dearly love to get their hands on.

Beyond that, she knew not only Mycroft's weak points, but Sherlock's too. She would know how to destroy both men with a ridiculously small amount of effort. Had Anthea used her knowledge of Sherrinford to create the fairy tale letters and slowly but surely drive Sherlock and with him Mycroft over the edge?

The only remaining question was for – or with – whom she was working. Planning and carrying out a scheme like this over the course of several years indicated that she wasn't acting entirely on her own; for one thing, Anthea simply hadn't been working for Mycroft for that many years. But how many of MI5's employees had been compromised, and what positions did they hold?

Sherlock sighed with frustration and massaged his temples. An insistent pounding was developing behind them, significantly impairing his thought process.

Mycroft didn't seem to be doing any better. He was still abusing his keyboard, presumably searching for some clue as to Anthea's whereabouts. He had one small last hope that this grave suspicion would turn out to be wrong. Maybe Anthea had been abducted too? But the chances of that were low; after all, only a handful of people had unlimited access to those rooms.

"The cameras have obviously been tampered with," Mycroft complained without looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock sat down next to his brother to look over his shoulder. "It's highly unlikely that not a single person walked down this hallway during a two-hour period at this time of day. There... a brief flicker in the digits." Mycroft pointed at the time stamp in the upper left corner of the screen. "It's barely more than a fraction of a second. Probably a time loop. The IT department will be able to prove..."

"We haven't time for that!" Sherlock snapped. "It's of little consequence whether she's guilty or not. This letter clearly points to Sherrinford." He spread out the piece of paper he'd mentioned and smoothed it down by swiping his hand over it several times. "There must be a clue in it... There must be!"

Sherlock read and re-read the sparse lines, trying desperately to recall the tale of the Golden Key and what it meant, but didn't arrive at any sensible conclusions.

_The words of the King: when he's not lying, he's silent._

"… then he's _silent_!" Sherlock gasped out loud and whirled around to face Mycroft, but his elder brother already seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. He hastily grabbed his phone and leapt to his feet to follow Sherlock.

 

******

 

To Sherlock's dismay, Mycroft got behind the wheel of the car himself rather than leaving that task to Sherlock. Mycroft had refused, saying that Sherlock's emotional state carried too high a risk of an accident, which would have endangered their mission unnecessarily. And since they still couldn't be sure which of Mycroft's colleagues were playing dirty, they dispensed with the usual chauffeur.

One nerve-wrackingly slow trip across London's busy city centre later, the two brothers found themselves in front of the Diogenes Club. Even before the car had come to a complete halt, Sherlock flung open the car's passenger-side door and lunged toward the black-lacquered entrance to the building.

The eternal silence in the Diogenes Club weighed heavily on Sherlock's eardrums. His swift footsteps on the polished wood floor and his rapid breaths reverberated off the walls with an unnaturally loud echo. Beads of perspiration formed over his temples. His eyes flicked over everyone he saw, every object, looking for some clue. Concerned looks on wrinkled faces tracked his progress, only to disappear behind rustling newspapers as soon as Mycroft had caught up to Sherlock.

Mycroft had to quicken his pace in order to keep up, and signalled to a startled butler that he should clear the lounge. There was absolutely no question of risking one of the gentlemen present falling into Moriarty's clutches.

Sherlock bit down on his bottom lip. His worry over John was undercut by one single, agonising thought: wasn't it unlikely that John would have been brought here, where there were so many witnesses? Had he been mistaken? Understood the message incorrectly?

A few seconds later, the two men arrived at the door to the office to which Mycroft usually retired when he visited the club. As soon as they entered, Sherlock saw that they were correct after all. At least partially.

John wasn't in the room; instead, someone had left an open laptop computer on Mycroft's desk, the screen showing only a black square. The little green light at the top of the screen indicated that the camera was on.

An object on the table top caught Sherlock's attention. It was another small box, this time made of black lacquered wood. It was bigger than the one he'd found in the waiting room, but just as innocuous.

As soon as Mycroft joined Sherlock and let his eyes wander around the familiar space, the laptop came to life. The screen flickered, automatically coming into focus and revealing the angular shoulder of a man in a suit. It appeared to be a transmission coming from a phone camera that was wobbling wildly back and forth as it was brought into position.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek when James Moriarty's pale face finally smiled back at him. His dark eyes seemed to consume what little light there was around him like two black holes.

"Hiii...!" Moriarty greeted them with a downright unearthly friendliness in his voice. "It's always such a pleasant surprise to see how easy the two of you are to control. How you dance and dance and _dance_! Nothing more than marionettes!" The left-hand corner of his pink lips was drawn up in a permanent mocking position as he spoke.

"Where's John?!" Sherlock demanded, stepping closer to the desk, but Moriarty stopped him by raising his index finger.

"Oh, Sherlock. I haven't spoken to you in _ages_. At least give me a moment to enjoy the delightful sight of you again, all right? It was horribly unfair of Mycroft to keep us apart for so long, don't you think? Did you miss me?"

Sherlock swallowed down the bile burning in his throat, but refused to answer such a ridiculous question.

"Not interested in small talk, hm? Oh well, I suppose that's how it is with people whose beloved pet has run away, isn't it? So much worry, so much... sentiment!"

Sherlock clenched his hands into fists. He took a deep breath, swallowing down the overwhelming sense of rage snarling like a wild animal inside him.

"Tell me where John is," Sherlock repeated with foreboding in his voice. He made an effort to calm down and not let himself get riled up any further by Moriarty. The latter had promised him long ago to burn the heart out of him, and even though Sherlock wasn't going to pretend to himself that Moriarty hadn't noticed his feelings for John, he didn't want to risk putting John in any more danger with a careless comment on his part.

"He's here with me, naturally." Moriarty tapped the screen of his phone to switch from the front-facing camera to the rear one. The image rotated on its own axis before promptly coming back into focus.

Sherlock gasped in shock when John appeared on the laptop screen. He was only visible from his head to his shoulders, and was behind a glass partition. His face was distorted by anger and panic, there was perspiration on his forehead, and he was breathing hard. There was a red satin backdrop behind him with white roses in full bloom spread over it. It wasn't until that moment that Sherlock understood where John was.

"Mycroft's charming assistant was friendly enough to help me with the transport and assembly," Moriarty explained in the background as he took several steps back in order to reveal more of John's prison.

It was a glass coffin standing at a seventy-degree angle in a darkened room. The seams were edged in brass and shimmered golden in the light of the dozens of candles placed around the floor. A locking mechanism with a keyhole was mounted on one side. Sherlock grasped the brass key in his trouser pocket so tight that it hurt.

Straps around John's torso and hips held his arms pressed firmly against his sides. Sherlock registered with a sense of horror that there was a clear tube wrapped around John's right arm with a cannula on the end which was stuck into the crook of his arm and carefully held in place with tape. The bag of saline solution which it led to hung from an IV stand next to the coffin.

"John..."

"It doesn't surprise me at all that Sherrinford liked playing with you so much, Sherlock. Shame he lost interest in you so quickly," Moriarty said, adding a wistful undertone to his sing-song before turning the camera back around and drilling into Sherlock with his unwavering gaze.

"Do you actually remember that I was the one who saved your life when your two big brothers would rather have let you die?" Moriarty asked with a crazed smile.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder into Mycroft's ashen face before turning back to Moriarty. "When was that supposed to have been? We never met before the charade at Bart's."

Moriarty tittered brightly and ran his free hand through his combed-back black hair. "That's not entirely correct, darling, but you were pumped so full of drugs at the time that your poor memory can hardly be held against you. Sherrinford had sent me to you in order to ensure that you would go through with your plan to shoot yourself up into the hereafter. But the real intention must have been to make sure that Mycroft found you." A lackadaisical shrug made the image wobble again.

"He loved torturing the two of you, to set you challenges and see you fail – and how willingly both of you played along, every time! Forcing Mycroft to witness your death and not be able to do anything about it … that was one of his most underhanded ideas. Although you were still alive when he left you behind in that run-down hovel – not that he cared all that much, did you, Mycroft?"

"That's not true," Mycroft hissed and shot Sherlock a concerned look. "I called an ambulance right away, as soon as I left the building!"

"Oh? Well, my call would have gone through first. After all, I couldn't allow such a promising young man to kick the bucket when I had so many plans to have fun with him! And we have had fun, haven't we, Sherlock?"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft's tense gaze was burning on his neck, but Sherlock ignored it. He remembered all too vividly how stricken Mycroft had been by that overdose; how he'd sat at Sherlock's bedside day and night and spoken encouraging words to him. Even though that didn't mean the incident in the flop house had been forgotten, this wasn't the right moment to work through their past together.

"It was you..." Sherlock pressed out from between his clenched teeth. "You killed Abigail..."

"Hm?" Moriarty said, tilting his head to one side in a caricature of innocence. "You mean that awful bitch? That's right, I'd forgot about that completely...!" Moriarty's laughter echoed hollowly off the walls of the room he was in. "Such a dumb coincidence that everyone who cares about you gets hurt and dies..."

It took all of Sherlock's willpower not to flinch at those words. His heart clenched painfully. It was true: everyone who got too close to him ended up in danger sooner or later, and the feelings of guilt were threatening to suffocate him.

Moriarty executed a point turn on his heel so that the glass coffin was visible over his shoulder. John had sunk back against the satin lining; his face was red and damp with sweat. His fiery gaze fixed on the phone in Moriarty's hand, he was breathing through his mouth, his chest rising and falling with the effort.

"Hm... the air seems to be getting thin," Moriarty commented cheerfully and with a meaningful smile. "Let's move on the _real_ fun part! Sherlock, would you be so kind as to open the box," Moriarty asked in an excruciatingly cordial tone of voice.

Sherlock glanced briefly at his brother and saw the underlying rage and barely restrained alarm behind the crumbling mask of perfect unapproachability. The feeling of guilt for having let Moriarty escape, and the grief over the consequences they were now being subjected to.

Sherlock went over to the desk on shaky legs and examined the box for a moment before lifting the lid. Inside was a rectangular gadget consisting of several buttons beneath a black screen. Sherlock picked it up and went back to the laptop, holding the device up where the camera could see it.

"Turn it on!" Moriarty commanded, rolling his eyes as if annoyed at having to explain every little step to Sherlock.

Sherlock did as he was told and pressed the one coloured switch. A grid lit up in the background and a green line ran from left to right across the screen. A beeping sound started up, and with every beep the green line jumped up or down, marking every contraction of a rapidly beating heart.

"What is this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Moriarty replied, verging on boredom.

_John..._

Sherlock was unable to express in words how much he wanted to wipe the roguish grin off Moriarty's face. "A heart monitor. Why should I watch this?" Being careful not to let any traitorous emotions show through, Sherlock lifted one eyebrow and glared at the other man through the screen as he focused his mind to try to identify the darkened room Moriarty was in.

"Oh, I simply wouldn't want you to lose track of events, Sherlock!"

"Events... what events?"

"We're going to play a little game, you and I. Oh, and of course my charming assistant! She has truly been very, very helpful over the past few..." Moriarty tapped his lower lip and made a thinking sound. "… years."

Another window popped up on the laptop screen. Anthea stepped in front of the camera, her expression flat, almost apathetic.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and saw Mycroft clenching his hands into fists. A whining sound escaped his throat, but Sherlock couldn't tell whether it was from grief or anger.

Even if they now had the confirmation that Anthea had been working for Moriarty for a long time – if his words were to be believed – Sherlock was well able to understand Mycroft's dismay. After all, the woman had been the closest thing to a friend that Mycroft had had.

"Do you know, Sherlock, if I were you, I'd wonder whether your big brother's sense of judgment is really as good as he's always tried to have you believe. After all, he not only hired one of my most trustworthy cohorts and made my life easier by several orders of magnitude, he also assigned her the task of getting your handful of friends to _safety_. At least one of them has already agreed to join in our little game … well, not voluntarily, of course!"

Sherlock's pulse was racing and his heart was pounding painfully against his ribcage. He watched in increasing panic as Anthea held up her phone, turned around, and revealed another person in the frame. Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The unconscious man was tied to a chair, his head flopped down against his chest. Anthea reached into his silver-grey hair and yanked at it so that Sherlock could see the Inspector's face. The skin at his temple was split, the blood that had spilled there already dry and turned brown.

There didn't appear to be anyone or anything other than Lestrade and Anthea in the tiny, windowless room. Sherlock swallowed hard and balled his free hand into a fist. His eyes darted to the heart monitor, then to Moriarty. "What do you want? For me to decide between the two of them?" he pressed out from between clenched teeth.

" _Ding! Ding! Ding!_ Very good, Sherlock! Although I want to make the whole thing just a little bit more... _dramatic_." As soon as Moriarty had finished speaking, Anthea held up an old-fashioned six-shooter and held it to the back of the Inspector's head. Moriarty's ominous grin made the blood run cold in Sherlock's veins.

"This man may be part of your dearly beloved Work, but he made nothing but trouble for you in the months preceding your staged death, didn't he? How did it feel when he won John over and took him to bed? Did jealousy eat its way through your gut? Did you imagine what it would feel like to make him suffer for it? Well... today's your chance! Choose the gun and I'll let John go..."

The picture switched from Moriarty to John, so that John and Lestrade were displayed side by side. "Tick tock! Don't forget that John's going to run out of air sooner or later, you don't have all the time in the world to make your choice!"

A deep pit had opened up inside Sherlock. It was true that Lestrade had become a rival for John's affection prior to Sherlock's 'death', but that was no reason to kill him. Lestrade wasn't just Sherlock's key to Scotland Yard; they'd worked together for years now, and Sherlock felt a connection to him on more than one level. They were friends. How could he let him be killed?

"And who will give me the guarantee that you'll let John go if I allow Lestrade to be shot? Why should I trust you of all people to keep your word?" Sherlock asked, trying to mask the trembling in his voice. He hoped beyond hope that it wouldn't be heard over the laptop's microphone.

Moriarty chuckled softly and turned the camera onto himself again. "Very good, Sherlock. Of course I won't just let John go. No, no, no... I have a much more... _amusing_ alternative. One of these two men is going to die, Sherlock, and the choice is entirely up to you. Choose the gun for Lestrade and nothing will happen to John. Or choose this here..." Moriarty held up a syringe filled with a clear liquid. "...and John will die a long, slow, painful death."

"What... is that?" Sherlock asked tensely.

"Where would the fun be in telling you that, hm? I will promise you, though, that it won't kill your favourite pet straight out, but rather drain his life breath by breath. Does that sound familiar? Stories do tend to repeat themselves, don't they? At any rate, you would have plenty of time to find John and save him – as long as you decide quickly, because otherwise he's going to suffocate anyway. Quite practical that he's already in a coffin, isn't it?"

Sherlock bit down on his lip so hard that he flinched. His mind was racing. Of course he knew he couldn't – _shouldn't_ – trust Moriarty and that he might be bluffing. That whatever was in the syringe might kill John. A risk that Sherlock didn't want to take.

And yet...

If what Moriarty said was true, then at least they had the slimmest of chances to save both men. But if he continued to dither and didn't come to a decision, then both John and Lestrade would probably die.

"Tick tock!"

_John..._

"The... needle."

 

+++

tbc

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI – [The Heart monitor I had in mind.](http://litbimg5.rightinthebox.com/images/384x384/201503/jxyccb1427352229069.jpg)


	37. Saturday, 26.01.2013 (IV)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss) for this phenomenal translation!

John was shaking. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and the flight instinct was itching in his muscles. He writhed inside his tiny prison, but the straps around his shoulders and torso were pulled so tight that he could barely move.

The air in the glass coffin was already hot and stale. The heavy aroma of the white roses did its part to further cloud his mind. Sweat ran down his face, catching on his eyelashes and dripping off his chin. The rational voice in the back of his mind tried to calm him down and remind him that an increase in muscle tension would only use up oxygen faster and rapidly reduce his chances of survival.

He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on his rapid heartbeat and the rush of blood in his head. When he opened his eyes again, he honed in on the phone in Moriarty's hand to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. But Moriarty barely stood still for longer than the blink of an eye, making it impossible for John to see the screen.

The manic grin on Moriarty's lips was an indication that he was obviously pleased by his exchange with Sherlock. John, however, couldn't understand anything. The only thing that penetrated the thick glass was Moriarty's tone of voice – that nightmarish sing-song lilt that made the hair on the back of John's neck stand on end every time.

John tried desperately to think of some way to free himself and prevent Sherlock from risking another confrontation with Moriarty. There was no way he wanted to watch Sherlock sacrifice himself again to save John.

When Moriarty turned to John and showed him the phone, the blood froze in his veins. Greg was visible on the screen, unconscious and sporting a laceration on his temple. Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, was holding a gun to his head, her intention clear.

John's lungs became painfully tight and his heart clenched. The quivering in his muscles became so pronounced that he was almost glad for the straps holding him upright. Tears burned behind his eyelids. A sound of desperation escaped his throat, making him choke.

Moriarty had found Greg and was now using him as a bargaining chip. What about Mrs Hudson and Victor? Had they evaded the clutches of this madman? Or had they also been abducted?

John realised immediately that Moriarty was going to force Sherlock to make a choice.

John or Greg?

What a perfidious game! And what an utter atrocity. Making Sherlock choose the death of one of his friends?!

John watched in horror as Moriarty picked up a syringe and held it up to the phone camera. Only a few seconds elapsed before he approached John with it, his eyes glinting with foreboding. He injected the contents of the syringe into the IV bag standing next to the glass coffin, then turned one of the little dials to release the liquid into the tube and from there into John's circulatory system.

It only took a few seconds before John felt the cold fluid creeping through his veins. His panic increased exponentially. Not knowing what the hell Moriarty was giving him, not being able to guess what might happen to his body in the next few minutes, triggered a deep-seated fear that he'd never felt to that degree before.

 

******

 

The beeping was so loud in Sherlock's ears that it pushed all other sounds to the edge of his consciousness. He stared at the laptop screen anxiously, following every move John made, no matter how small. Every twitch, every breath, the reflexive head shake and the sheer panic in his eyes.

What had he done?! How could he have done that to John?

The ominous cocktail Moriarty had concocted was now flowing through John's body, setting off unknown chemical reactions in his cells and nerves. Had Sherlock signed the death sentence for the man he loved?

Sherlock started violently when a hand landed on his shoulder. It took him a moment to break through the veil of his own pain and recognise his brother. Mycroft's furrowed forehead and drawn-together eyebrows reflected commiseration and understanding, things that Sherlock only rarely saw in him.

Sherlock watched numbly as Mycroft reached for Sherlock's hand which was holding the heart monitor and lifted it up so that they could both watch the small display. The green line was still jumping up and down more rapidly than a resting pulse, but as they didn't know what Moriarty had given John, they were only able to draw limited conclusions as to his condition.

"Concentrate," Mycroft commanded, but the usual edge was missing from his voice. It was much more like a gentle reminder that Sherlock couldn't afford to lose his head now and drive himself insane with the consequences of the decision he'd just taken.

It took all of Sherlock's willpower to push down the fear and despair and make room for the razor-sharp rationale he needed to successfully complete the task set before him. He looked up and met Moriarty's hooded gaze, the fathomless evil and the mad pleasure in the tortures his chosen victims were suffering.

"Let him go and we won't chase you down," Sherlock tried to negotiate.

But Moriarty's only reaction was a delighted giggle. "Do you still not get it? I couldn't care less whether you catch me or not. You can't hurt me, Sherlock! Your brother locked me away for over half a year, and what did he get out of it? Nothing! In the end I simply walked out when I felt like it so that I could enact my little plan. And he wasn't able to stop me. Don't you see? There's no prison that can hold me! No punishment I can't escape!"

"What do you want then?!" Sherlock voice shattered against the walls of the spacious office and droned in his ears. He watched with disgust as Moriarty's grin became a little wider.

"I've always found great pleasure in playing with you, Sherlock! There are so many people who don't understand how we tick. Moralisers, killjoys, do-gooders... they drag themselves through their small lives, day in day out, always the same. Routine!" Moriarty complained with a bored air. "But if you tickle them a little, give them a poke, if you take away the shiny little things they've taken so much trouble to collect to make their meaningless existence a bit more bearable... then they dance! And oh, how I love to watch them!"

"You're insane..."

"You're just getting that now? Sherrinford was quicker on the uptake than you – as usual. I came to his attention when I switched out Carl Powers' medicine. Instead of stopping me, he gave me his phone number. Interesting man, your brother. Almost as clever as me... I learned a lot from him over the years. He introduced me to some interesting people, recommended Moran to me after picking him up in Kandahar. A soldier of fortune who got his hands dirty instead of yours truly. Some people are so eager to please... aren't they? Sherrinford had big plans for me. But he never realised that I interfered with his last one... Oh well..." Moriarty shrugged lackadaisically, as if the memory of the incidents he'd mentioned were nothing more than a bothersome echo.

Sherlock felt nausea rising in him again. If what Moriarty was saying was true, then this maniac had  been lurking in Sherrinford's long shadow since Sherlock's childhood, had been working with him and manipulated Sherlock who knew how many times. Mycroft must have been affected too, and judging by the expression on his face, he was recalling various events that confirmed that very suspicion.

"But back to our game – Anthea!"

The room with Anthea and Lestrade appeared again. Without batting an eyelash, Anthea cocked the hammer, angled her arm so that the barrel was pointed at the ceiling, and squeezed the trigger.

Sherlock started as if an electric shock had gone through him when a loud _click_ echoed through the laptop's loudspeaker. There had been no bullet in the chamber.

_What...?!_

Sherlock's heart rate sped up in a rush and adrenaline shot through his body, making him gasp. His brain informed him at an uncharacteristically slow pace that he'd just poisoned John for no reason at all.

Sherlock tried desperately to collect himself, to think clearly, but his mind was racing in a never-ending circle, and the fact that John was going to die if he didn't manage to beat Moriarty's 'game' made him feel numb all over.

"Oh, I forgot! There are only three bullets in the gun, Sherlock!" Moriarty said and giggled lightly. "Looks like the good old Inspector got lucky this time. Not like Doctor Watson! I'm excited to see how our next candidate will do!"

As if on command, a broad-shouldered man entered the room. His face was covered by a ski mask and his clothes were completely black, so that it was difficult to make out any identifying marks. He roughly shoved a delicate figure into the room, at whose sight Sherlock's despair flared up once more.

Mrs Hudson was wearing her beloved violet dress, but it was wrinkled all over. A dirty cloth tied around her jaw served as a gag, and her thin wrists had been hastily bound over her chest with a rope. Her eyelids fluttered nervously when the man let go of her, dragged a chair out of the camera's blind spot, and pushed her rudely down onto the seat. He then promptly disappeared again through the open door.

"Sherlock... that door; I know it. That's the hideout where Anthea was supposed to bring them," Mycroft whispered close to Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock nodded once without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. "Then get them out of there!"

Mycroft whirled around and stormed out of the office.

Moriarty, who hadn't missed the hasty retreat, smiled sedately into the camera and shook his head. "Do you really think I'd let you change the rules of the game just like that, Sherlock? Believe me, I've thought of every possibility and planned ahead. If Mycroft turns up at that nasty secret hideaway before we've finished our game, all of your friends will die. Anthea will put a bullet through each of their skulls, one after the other, and I'll have the pleasure of putting down your beloved pet... and believe me, it would be more than a pleasure!"

Sherlock pressed his lips firmly together. The plastic of the heart monitor creaked in his hand, the constant beeping an ominous reminder of John's condition. Sherlock glanced nervously at the readout and saw that John's heartbeat was already slowing down. Uncertainty crawled up his neck like clammy, invisible fingers, making Sherlock shiver.

"That's right, my special medicine is already taking effect... Do you see that steady heartbeat? If you're not quick enough, it will get slower and slower until it stops beating altogether." With a casual flick of his wrist, Moriarty conjured up another syringe filled with a clear fluid and held it up for the camera, pretending to give it due consideration. "I wonder if he'd survive another dose..."

"Don't...!" The single word spilled out of Sherlock's mouth before he could even think about it. Panic bubbled just under the surface of his skin, making him flip back and forth between anger and despair.

"Well now, that all depends on what you choose, Sherlock! The gun or another dose for John? Decide quickly or you'll lose them all!"

As soon as the words left Moriarty's mouth, Anthea rotated the cylinder of the revolver and held the muzzle to the back of Mrs Hudson's head. Mrs Hudson flinched fearfully when the metal came into contact with her skin. Tears welled up over the edge of her eyelashes and rolled down her creased cheeks, soaking into the gag.

Anthea's cool gaze flickered over to the phone camera, and Sherlock saw nothing but contempt there. No matter how long she'd worked for Mycroft, no matter how close her connection to Sherlock's big brother – and figuratively to him – Sherlock had no doubt that she would shoot the old woman as soon as she received the signal.

Sherlock was able to calculate the probability of a bullet being in the next chamber. But to take the risk of being wrong and signing Mrs Hudson's death sentence was unthinkable.

Choosing the needle for John again was – logically – the better choice. The slower effect of the poison would buy the necessary time for Sherlock to win this sick game before Moriarty did away with all of the players.

These were impossible decisions which Sherlock was being forced to make. For good or evil. For life or death. For just a fraction of a second, Sherlock considered choosing the gun. Mrs Hudson had lived her life; how many years did she have left anyway? But when he saw the fear on the old woman's face, he couldn't decide against the woman that he might even love more than his own mother.

Forgive me...

"The syringe..." Sherlock choked out, his teeth grinding as he squeezed his jaws together. He turned his head to one side, closing his eyes to Moriarty's gloating grin, the nonchalant way he ambled over to the IV and injected the colourless fluid.

"Good, good, good... shall we see whether it was the right decision? Anthea..."

Just as before, Anthea pointed the revolver toward the ceiling and squeezed the trigger.

When the shot went off, sending an ear-splitting echo through the room, Sherlock gasped in shock. Tears shot into his eyes, burning behind his lids and dampening his eyelashes. A wave of relief flooded over him, only to promptly dry up at the awareness of the consequence of his decision.

Moriarty's laugh pierced his eardrum, setting off another rush of adrenaline that pinched hotly into the fibre of his being. "Very good! Looks like the old biddy got lucky again! But does Johnny agree?"

Sherlock's eyes darted to the heart monitor. The distance between each peak of the green line had already increased. Their time was running out. The faster he ended this insanity, the faster he would be able to free John from Moriarty's clutches and get him treated. Every second counted.

But now there was another decision to be made. As expected, it only took a few seconds before the next victim was hustled into the room.

Victor had also been bound and gagged. Several bruises and scrapes on his face showed that he – like Greg – hadn't surrendered without a fight. He huffed furiously and writhed within the bonds holding his upper arms pressed against his body and his hands tied behind his back. A pointed kick to the back of his knee sent him tumbling hard onto the floor before the man in black grasped Victor by his blond hair and pulled his head back so that he was visible on camera. The blood-stained rag around his jaw had slipped out of place, barely covering his split lip.

Victor stared at the phone in disbelief. His mouth moved, but his words were unintelligible. No one had told him or any of the others that Sherlock was alive. The shock and easily overlooked trace of relief were clearly legible in his eyes and furrowed brow.

Anthea once again rotated the cylinder of the revolver and held the gun to Victor's temple.

"I'm sure you saw this one coming, Sherlock... The big one, deciding between the two men who have had _such_ an influence on your life," Moriarty sneered, twisting his lips into a predatory smile.

"You've always gone in for good-for-nothings like them instead of trying to find someone who knows how to appreciate your worth! Someone who's your equal! By the way, my people have just informed me that Mycroft isn't far now. You should make your decision quickly, or our little intermezzo will be over sooner than planned! And then it would all be for naught! So... what will it be? The revolver or the needle? Oh, don't think I don't appreciate the fact that you've made John suffer for the sake of your other two friends, but … well... I can definitely guarantee that he won't survive another dose—" Moriarty held up a third syringe. "—of this. So this time it's all... or nothing!"

Sherlock sank weakly down onto his left knee and let out an inhuman growl. The pounding of his pulse echoed in his head, thrummed in every cell in his body. Despair crawled across his skin like thousands of pinpricks, eating its way into his gut. He struggled to formulate one – just one – clear thought, to force himself to make a decision.

His heart was virtually nothing more than a stiff lump behind his ribs; it didn't even seem to be a part of him anymore. Was this what Moriarty had planned all along from the beginning? Was this what was intended to destroy Sherlock; to burn the heart out of him?

If he chose Victor, the man who had been part of Sherlock's life for over 20 years already, for whom he felt a deep affection and with whom he would go through hell without hesitation... then John would die.

_John._

The man who had saved Sherlock countless times – both physically and emotionally. His partner in every part of his life. The man he didn't want to be without ever again. _The love of his life_.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He scrabbled desperately for some sense, some reason, for logic and probability.

The poison would kill John. Or at least so Moriarty claimed. Sherlock had to assume it was true; after all, John had already been given two doses and the heart monitor clearly showed that his body was getting steadily weaker. Even if he didn't have to suffer another syringe full, his chances of survival were decreasing by the minute.

There were two bullets left in the gun. The chance of Victor surviving was higher than for John in any case, even if he couldn't entirely dismiss the chance of a shot discharging...

Sherlock's breath rattled in his lungs, sweat ran down his cheek and dripped off his chin. Plaintively, he tried to catch Victor's eye, but the distance to the phone camera was too great, such that he couldn't be sure whether Victor could see him too. His lips silently formed a couple of syllables in the hope that his long-time friend would understand.

_Oh God... Victor... I'm so sorry..._

"Mycroft will be here any second, Sherlock. I'm giving you five... four... three—"

"Gun!" Sherlock screamed and fell to his knees. Pain flashed through him, zapping through his body. He held the heart monitor pressed to his chest, dug the nails of his other hand into the rough carpet, and only just managed to hold in the sob that was trying to squeeze out of his throat.

_Click!_

The chamber was empty.

Sherlock felt his ribs expanding as he struggled to suck air into his lungs. He was shaking all over as if he'd run a marathon, as if he'd reached the end of a chase, still filled with adrenaline and scattered thoughts.

Hardly a blink of an eye passed before all hell broke loose – or at least that's how it seemed to Sherlock.

An MI5 team stormed the tiny grey room and took out the man in black with a direct shot. Anthea raised the gun, cocked it, and pulled the trigger, but the next shot was a blank too. A moment later she collapsed after being hit. She probably would have been spared if she'd dropped the gun immediately and surrendered. But that's not what happened, and one of the agents had taken the initiative and shot.

Mycroft stepped into the room behind his men and looked down at his former assistant with a cool gaze before turning his attention to the phone. But the screen was black, the connection terminated.

Sherlock saw Moriarty smirk on the laptop, a foreboding gleam in his dark eyes.

"I don't think you're going to be able to save him in time, darling! Just look at him. His life is hanging by a thread. At any rate... I'm already looking forward to the next time we meet... until our next game, Sherlock."

"Where is he?! Where's John?" Sherlock didn't care how desperate he sounded. The only thing that counted now was saving John.

Without bothering to answer, Moriarty stepped to one side and disappeared from the camera's view. Sherlock stared at the laptop screen in disbelief; at the figure of John in that horrible glass coffin. His shallow breaths were barely discernible, and the beeping of the heart monitor was getting steadily weaker.

"No... no, no, no!"

Suddenly, light pierced the darkness and revealed the room where John was. It was the chancel of a church. Sherlock's stomach flipped anxiously when he recognised which one it was.

A fresh wave of adrenaline poured into his circulation, setting off a flurry of frantic tapping on the screen of his phone as he left the Diogenes Club.

The other end of the line was picked up immediately. "Sher—"

"St James's Church! Send an ambulance!" Sherlock interrupted his brother, rang off, and stuffed the phone into his trouser pocket. Tossing one last glance to check the heart monitor in his hand, Sherlock set off at a run.

 

+++

tbc

 


	38. Tuesday, 29.01.2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts) who's not only responsible for this great translation but a lovely person and friend <3

St James's Church was barely ten minutes from the Diogenes Club on foot. Sherlock managed to cover the distance in just over half the time. He raced down Regent Street as fast as he could, turned left into Piccadilly, and came to a stop, gasping for air, in front of the wrought-iron fence behind which stood the reddish-brown brick edifice.

A short distance away stood James Moriarty, one hand casually resting on the open door of an automobile, the other propped on his hip; his thin lips were stretched in a triumphant smile.

It was a test. One final test whether Sherlock would choose to capture his arch-enemy or save John Watson.

But James Moriarty had made a serious error in judgment if he thought the decision would be a difficult one for Sherlock to make. Without wasting a second glance at the other man, Sherlock closed the last few metres to the church and rushed into the building. He couldn't help hearing Moriarty close the car door, start the engine, and drive away.

Sherlock's lungs were burning, his forehead was covered in cold sweat, and his heart was hammering like mad against his ribs.

"John!" he cried out frantically, shocked at the broken sound of his own voice.

He lurched into the chancel and faltered for a fraction of a second. Windows towered above the panelled wall at the rear of the room, all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. They were decorated with colourful images of saints regarding the scene with mournful eyes.

The glass coffin stood at an angle at the end of the aisle between the pews, surrounded by innumerable candles and the IV stand to its left. Sherlock saw that the bag with saline solution was already empty. Immediately after that, his attention was drawn to an object that lay on the floor in front of the coffin.

It was a gleaming red apple, into which three letters had been carved: I O U. _I owe you._

"John!" Sherlock rushed over to him. He made space in front of the coffin with a firm kick. The candles extinguished when they hit the paving stones and rolled lethargically away. Beside himself with worry, Sherlock pounded on the glass with his fist, but it didn't give, nor did the man inside show any reaction. John's head had lolled to one side and his eyes were closed. Sherlock gave the heart monitor an anxious glance. The occasional beeping and the tenuous up and down of the green line gave him the impetus to continue.

He set the device down on the floor, took the brass key out of his pocket, and inserted it into the lock of the glass coffin, his heart beating at a hectic pace. His hands were shaking so hard that the key almost fell out of his grasp, and then didn't want to fit into the keyhole. Sherlock cursed as he tried to calm his trembling fingers.

When the lock finally popped open, he immediately threw back the glass lid and felt for John's carotid artery. His pulse was weak but present, just as the heart monitor had promised.

"John... John, can you hear me?"

There was no response. Sherlock swallowed down the panic that rose in increasing waves inside him, forcing tears into his eyes and cutting off the air he needed to breathe.

Whispering the other man's name over and over, Sherlock removed the tape from the inside of John's elbow. The tube leading to the IV bag was threaded through a small hole in the side wall of the glass box and held in place with silicon. Sherlock carefully pulled the needle out of the vein. It clinked softly when it fell against the glass. He loosened the strap around John's waist, then the one around his shoulders.

"John... please...!" Sherlock begged, touching John's face anxiously and repeatedly taking his faltering pulse. Tears dripped onto John's blond hair when Sherlock pulled his lifeless body toward him and lowered both of them to the floor together. He rocked John back and forth, despondent.

Underneath the wrinkled fabric of John's shirt, Sherlock could feel the electrodes that had been glued to John's chest and which were still sending weak signals to the heart monitor. Sherlock didn't know what he should do. It was impossible to tell how far the poison had progressed; how many minutes John had left before he...

From somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, Sherlock registered sounds coming from somewhere. The dull roar around him took on the form of a weird melody. Words whose meaning his mind was completely unable to parse.

It wasn't until hands clasped his shoulders and gently pulled him away from John that he emerged from his trance-like state and blinked in confusion.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock didn't need to turn around in order to know that Mycroft was standing behind him. The grip holding him wasn't intended to prevent Sherlock from going over to John again, but rather to give his little brother the support he needed. As if in a daze, Sherlock watched the paramedics at work, bending over John and sticking more needles under his skin and doing everything they could with their expertise to retrieve John from the brink of death.

Sherlock was gently pushed down onto one of the pews. An orange blanket was draped over his shoulders. His brother sat close beside him and explained in clinical terms what was being done to John, but the words didn't penetrate through to Sherlock's mind. The soothing tone calmed him bit by bit, though, until he felt as if he could breathe again without needing to focus on every single inhale.

It couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes before the paramedics strapped John onto the gurney and transported him out of the tiny chapel. Sherlock didn't fail to note the irony of the fact that he'd just freed John from needles and straps so that he could promptly get a new set again.

"Come, Sherlock... let's ride behind them," Mycroft suggested quietly, and nudged his little brother out of the church with a gentle touch.

 

******

 

The first thing John saw when he woke up was the bright blue sky.

An empty chair stood between the bed and the window. There was a half-full water bottle on the side table, along with a couple of paper cups stacked together. White strings with tags attached dangled from them. Earl Grey. Beside those was a thick book with easily a thousand pages, its corners dog-eared and its spine cracked. _The Complete Works of..._

The letters blurred before John's eyes. He growled and closed them, pinched the bridge of his nose, and swallowed against his parched throat. A horrible pain appeared behind his temples, seeming to increase with every throb.

John took a deep breath, placed his hands on the blanket, and reluctantly opened his eyes. He was obviously in a hospital room. A private one. The quiet beeping of the machines monitoring his vital signs on the other side of the bed was unable to drown out the usual background noise of a busy ward. Rapid steps in the corridor, more beeping, and scraps of several conversations seeped in through the crack in the door, which wasn't quite closed all the way.

When he saw the cannula in the back of his hand, his chest suddenly contracted with a painful squeeze, as if trying to protect the vulnerable parts inside him. He broke out in a cold sweat, and his heart started racing as if he'd just run a marathon.

 _Panic attack_ , whispered a matter-of-fact female voice, which he identified as that of his old therapist, Ella Thompson.

A myriad of images and fleeting glimpses crashed over him, bringing the memory of what had happened to him back to the surface. His breath rattled in his lungs. His skin seemed to shrink under a feeling of oppression – tight, tighter, _tighter_ – and the razor-sharp claws of mortal fear dug into his muscles.

All of a sudden, he thought he felt the same cold that had crept through his veins earlier. The strange concoction that had made the ground crumble away beneath him piece by piece, leaving behind nothing but a bottomless void. Panicked, he tried to grab the IV needle, but found himself unable to move.

Trapped in a glass coffin.

His own helplessness held him down on the satin bed. The sickly sweet scent of roses pricked his nose, confusing his overtaxed senses. A desperate gurgle escaped his throat as he gasped uselessly for air.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity around him. He became aware of several people bustling around his bed and touching him. A loud bang made his bones vibrate as something fell to the floor. A shot, a shot, a _shot_... desert sand between his fingers.

_You can't sacrifice them for me!_

Fingers burned his skin, turned and manipulated him. Abused him with needles, needles, needles, and...

Silence.

 

******

 

The next time John woke up, he wasn't alone.

It was dark and the curtains were drawn. Three lamps recessed in fittings behind the bed gently cast a warm yellow light onto curly brown hair.

The normally sharp contours of Sherlock's body looked as if they'd been blurred. Broken down. Polished to softness. Sawdust everywhere. Traces of salt on his cheeks, sure to make any stone crumble.

John set aside the strange images and tentatively poked at the arm resting on the mattress next to him. He barely had enough strength to move so much as a finger. Soft fabric. One of the many posh shirts Sherlock wore like other people wore t-shirts. The colour of eggplant. Shimmery. Flattering. A smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth at all the naughty thoughts that traipsed through his mind every time he saw that shirt.

Sherlock looked up with a start. His dark brown locks tumbled around his head like springs. Signs of frost and smoke in his red-rimmed eyes. Disbelief and hope side-by-side on his pale, gaunt face. Ashen aside from a spot on his left cheekbone where rainbow-coloured shadows decorated his skin like a watercolour painting.

_Punch me in the face!_

_Punch you?_

_Yes, punch me in the face. Didn't you hear me?_

_I always hear, 'Punch me in the face,' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext._

But that was half a lifetime ago...

"Sh'lock..." John frowned in consternation at his thick tongue.

"How... are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, his voice reedy and thin. A cold hand landed on John's lower arm and squeezed lightly.

John tried to sit up and steady himself on the heels of his palms without interfering with the tubes and wires connected to him all over. He couldn't manage it. His arms immediately began to quiver, and he gave up the superhuman effort and sank back against his pillows with a pained sigh.

"Lie back down," Sherlock reprimanded him gently as he traced circles over John's heart. "You're not back to full strength yet... Plus the doctors gave you a sedative earlier because you were having a panic attack."

"Hm," was John's only response. He tried to recall what might have set off the attack but felt resistance stirring inside him as he rummaged through his spotty memories, his mind trying to turn off the path in order not to be confronted again with those events which had already been locked away. But John remained stubborn, calling himself out, reminding himself that he wasn't alone. That Sherlock was sitting right beside him; that nothing could happen to him.

"What happened?"

In a low voice, Sherlock related the events in St James's Church, Moriarty's sick game and the decisions Sherlock had been forced to make. John had been unconscious for three days after being brought to hospital. Fortunately, the stuff Moriarty had given him wouldn't do any lasting damage, but it was still going to take a while for his body to completely flush it out of his system.

John only had a vague recollection of Moriarty holding the phone out toward him, and how Anthea of all people had appeared and threatened to shoot Greg first, then Mrs Hudson, and finally Victor.

John felt panic rise in him again at the thought of James Moriarty. Of the glass coffin, the weird brew in the syringe that had been introduced into his body through the IV. Of Sherlock's face, distorted on the phone screen. Greg's body slumped in on itself. Mrs Hudson's tears. And Victor...

John swallowed hard. "What... what happened to Victor...?" he asked, afraid to hear the answer. He hadn't seen whether Victor had been shot or not before he lost consciousness.

"He's... doing fine. Well, given the circumstances. He got lucky." Sherlock's voice became quieter with each word. His eyes were fixed firmly on John's arm, as if to escape the contemptuous judgment he so obviously expected.

John interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's and squeezed lightly until Sherlock met his eyes again. "Thank you... for saving my life..."

John's heart clenched painfully when he saw Sherlock press his lips together and struggle with all his might to hold back the tears that formed in his eyes. He could only vaguely imagine how difficult it must have been for Sherlock to make those dreadful decisions. There was no telling what might have happened if there had been a bullet in the chamber of the revolver...

The what-if was clearly visible on Sherlock's face. His prominent features appeared harsher than usual, tighter. His posture was both tense and exhausted, as if he were constantly on alert and barely able to keep himself upright.

"Sherlock..."

"I almost killed him... and you too. How can I ever forgive myself?"

"Hey..." As helpless as the gesture was, John strengthened his grip on Sherlock’s hand as much as he could, tried to give him support although he himself felt as if he were floating in an airless chamber. "You did everything in your power, Sherlock. You saved all of us."

John paused for a moment before beginning to speak again. "What happened to Moriarty?"

Sherlock was still avoiding John's questioning gaze. "… He escaped."

A heavy sigh broke forth from John's throat. In spite of everything he'd hoped, he now had the confirmation that Sherlock's arch-enemy was still running around free. That he could return at any time and play one of his sick games all over again.

"And... Sherrinford?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "No, Sherrinford is dead. After the whole thing with Moriarty was over, Mycroft immediately ordered the body to be exhumed to be sure. He really did die on that mission in Afghanistan. It seems Moriarty wasn't entirely innocent there either... Afterwards, he picked up where Sherrinford had left off and tried to drive me insane little by little. To shut down one Holmes after the other... That was … or rather, _is_ apparently part of his master plan. Either that or it's just a way of passing the time for a completely insane psychopath."

"Looks that way..." John murmured and ran his free hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes.

"You should get some sleep..."

"Yeah, in a mo'. Tell me first what happened to your face."

"This?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the bruise over his cheekbone. "That was Victor..."

 

******

 

"You goddamned bastard!"

The blow that hit Sherlock wasn't entirely unexpected. In fact, he probably could have sidestepped it – if he'd wanted to. Pain exploded in his head and he was overcome by a sense of vertigo. Dazed, he staggered back two steps before he got himself under control again and placed one hand on the throbbing spot on his face.

A single tentative glance to the side sufficed to ascertain that his assailant wasn't quite finished with him yet. In a matter of milliseconds, he steeled himself instinctively against another attack, but his willpower was weak. He let his hand fall and stood up straight, meeting Victor head on with a blank expression.

It had only been three days since the last incident with Moriarty. Not nearly enough time for the wounds which had been dealt to his old friend to heal. Just the opposite. The numerous bruises had taken on darker tones and the scrapes had just scabbed over.

Victor closed the short distance between them and grabbed Sherlock by the collar, twisting his hands into the silky soft material of his shirt as he yanked him forward. It wasn't a gentle kiss. Lips and teeth crashed into each other. Fingers dug into wild curls and pulled until Sherlock let out a pained hiss.

Victor forced Sherlock back with his whole body until the latter bumped up against the nearest wall, then plundered his mouth between frantic breaths and angry bites.

Two urges stood in disconcerting opposition to each other: the urge to pull Victor close, to hold him and apologise for everything that had happened to him because of Sherlock, and the urge to get out of his embrace and push Victor away. Sherlock was left in a paralysing limbo until the worst of the onslaught had passed.

Victor clasped Sherlock's face in both hands, leaned his forehead against Sherlock's, and panted against his raw lips.

"I'm so happy you're alive, you fucker," Victor rasped, his voice shaking. He carefully stroked Sherlock's wounded cheekbone with his right thumb. He sighed and raised his head, kissed Sherlock on the forehead, and tugged him into a firm embrace.

Sherlock was overly aware of the other man's powerful heartbeat against his chest. The ultimate proof that he hadn't killed his friend.

Feelings of guilt washed over Sherlock, making it difficult for him to get air. A shiver went through his depleted body when he grabbed Victor's leather jacket with both fists and tried to smother his relentless sobs in Victor's neck.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Vic..."

The words didn't seem to be nearly enough. Victor had already narrowly escaped with his life once after that first traumatic encounter with Moriarty's henchmen, only to end up grieving Sherlock's death for months. It had never been Sherlock's intention, but Victor had been just as unaware as John that Sherlock had survived the fall off Southwark Bridge. It was simply horrific that Victor had once more ended up being a victim of Moriarty's machinations in such a short time, despite all of Sherlock and Mycroft's efforts.

The worst part, though, was that Sherlock had sacrificed him to save John.

That was unforgivable.

Victor had every right to voice his anger. But even if he did forgive Sherlock at some point, Sherlock would have to live with the guilt. At least until it sank in that Moriarty's plan hadn't worked and all of Sherlock's friends were alive.

"I know... you didn't have any choice. I wouldn't have been able to make a decision like that... but in the end you somehow manage to get us all out of there alive."

Sherlock strengthened his grip on Victor and tried to get his emotions under control. Buttery soft leather brushed his damp cheek in a cool caress. "You can't forgive me for that..." he protested weakly, shaking his head against the crook of Victor's neck.

"Let me worry about that..." Victor replied, lifting Sherlock's chin so that he could look into his reddened eyes.

"I'm so sorry..."

Both men held each other's gaze, knowing that Sherlock was apologising for much more than the most recent events, the mortal danger, the lies, and Sherlock's faked death. It was an apology for the years of ups and downs, for constantly pushing him away and taking him back, for too much and yet too little. For the irrevocable end of their relationship as it had once been.

A crooked smile that could barely be counted as such tugged at the corners of Victor's mouth as he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock again. Tenderly this time.

Sherlock responded to the kiss with mixed feelings, uncertain whether he would have to push his friend away after all in a moment so as not to awaken any false hopes in him.

"I love you," Victor whispered – for the first time ever – against Sherlock's soft lips. Sherlock inhaled sharply in shock. "I know you don't feel the same way... maybe you never did."

Sherlock wanted to protest, but Victor shook his head. "It's all right. It doesn't change anything about how I feel. I'll always be there for you, Sherlock. Which doesn't mean I'm not still bloody angry with you!" Victor furrowed his brow and gave Sherlock a sober look. "Why are you here and not at the hospital with John?"

"I... don't know if..."

"Sherlock... don't be daft. Of course he wants to have you there with him. And I'm tired of sitting by his bed for hours on end holding his hand! So get your arse in gear and see to it that you own up to your responsibilities!" Victor gave Sherlock a friendly slap on the shoulder, paused, then let his hand slide up to Sherlock's nape and pulled him in again.

It was a moment in which time seemed to slow down. Everything that remained unsaid between the two men hovered in the room, weighing heavily on their mood.

They didn't know whether this thing that had tied them to each other for so many years would remain. It would change, certainly; maybe it would dissolve altogether. Only time would tell.

Victor reluctantly extracted himself from Sherlock, let their lips touch one last time in a fleeting kiss, and whispered a couple of words over Sherlock's flushed lips without meeting his eye.

"Good-bye."

And with that, Victor left Baker Street.

Sherlock stared at the spot where his long-time friend had just been standing, unable to shake the feeling that he would probably never see him again.

 

******

 

"...and then he left. I assume he's gone back to Manchester for the time being. At least that's what he always used to do whenever he needed a bit of distance from me. But this time is... different... I have the feeling he's not going to return to London for a while," Sherlock concluded, brushing John's lower arm with his thumb.

John grunted pensively. He didn't quite know what to say about this whole thing. On the one hand, he felt the ugly jab of jealousy in his gut. On the other hand, he was well aware that he of all people didn't have any right to feel that way. After all, John had ended up having sex with Victor less than four weeks ago.

In the end, Victor had realised that Sherlock and John belonged together and had taken the appropriate measures as a consequence. He had deliberately removed himself from the situation in order to give them a chance at working through the bitter experiences of the past few months together and finding their way back to each other. It was hard to blame Victor for needing to leave the city for a while in order to create some distance between himself and his past with Sherlock.

Quite the opposite, it was to his credit.

"I..." John began, but faltered. His throat closed off, refusing to release the words that were necessary to clear the air. But he needed to do it so that Sherlock knew what he was up against. Even though John suspected that Sherlock had already deduced what had happened between him and Victor on New Year's Eve. Worried, John bit his lower lip and searched for the right words.

"The two of you had sex." Sherlock's voice was flat, didn't convey the usual arrogance with which he pronounced other people's thoughts before they had worked their way up to a confession.

John's throat was suddenly as dry as a bone. He pressed his lips together and nodded curtly, grateful that he didn't need to say it himself.

"You both thought I was dead... it's understandable that something like that would happen... I thought it might," Sherlock added without batting an eyelash. But John couldn't help noticing the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

"Sherlock..." John felt for Sherlock's hand and interlaced their fingers, pulling him closer. "I'm sorry. Victor was the only one who could understand my pain. The only one I trusted over the past six months. He saved me more than once from despair and stopped me from doing anything even more stupid. He did so much more for me than I did for him, even though he was doing just as poorly as I was. I consider Victor my friend – just as he is yours – and I'm grateful to him."

John gently stroked Sherlock's cheek, brushing a couple of unruly locks of hair out of his beloved face. "But the fact that I have you back... that's the most important thing. I want you... only you..." he added in a choked voice.

Grey-blue eyes darted to John's. A moment later, Sherlock pressed his lips to John's, kissed him over and over again and whispered half-swallowed endearments against his skin.

John chuckled softly and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, making sure not to dislodge the cannula in the back of his hand, and pulled him in as close as he could.

"I love you too."

 

+++

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dears, we are almost done! There's just an epilogue to come. I'm really happy that so many of you have stuck it out, despite the fact that the story got pretty sad in places. <3


	39. Wednesday, 06.02.2013 (Epilogue)

Mrs Hudson let out a tired sigh when she set foot in her flat again after nearly a week. She let Sherlock help her out of her grey woollen coat while John rolled her small suitcase into the living room. Those few days at her sister's had done her a world of good and helped with processing the traumatic events of the abduction and Sherlock's unexpected resurrection.

She was in the middle of filling the kettle to make a pot of tea for herself and the two men when John joined her in the kitchen and rested both hands on his hips. An uncertain smile played around his mouth when their eyes met.

Mrs Hudson closed the short distance between them and placed one hand affectionately on John's cheek, the other on his upper arm. "I'm glad you're doing better, John."

"I was just about to say the same to you," John replied, allowing Mrs Hudson to pull him into a surprisingly strong embrace. He glanced over her narrow shoulder and saw that Sherlock was watching them from where he sat at the kitchen table, trying to get his trembling fingers under control. Mrs Hudson had already assured him that he'd done everything right given the circumstances. But it was clear just from looking at him that those feelings of guilt were still gnawing at his conscience.

John had only been released from hospital two days ago. Even now, he could still feel the aftereffects of the poison; he tired easily and slept longer than usual. At least that meant he was no longer waking up at five a.m., as he had done ever since his stint in the military. Instead, he was being plagued by nightmares again. But Sherlock was always right there with him whenever that happened, getting John to fall asleep again peacefully through gentle words and touches.

Greg had visited him in hospital a couple of times once his condition had stabilised. The bruises and scrapes on Greg's face were slowly but surely healing, but there were parts of his memory that had been damaged from being beaten unconscious during his captivity. He could only recall bits and pieces about the men who had overpowered him. The face of Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, was the only thing that he could remember clearly.

Fortunately, he'd never been aware of nearly being shot. He'd been informed afterwards though. It was clear by looking at him that the experience wasn't going to be so easy for him to shake off, despite everything. He'd been given a leave of absence from work and advised to see a therapist so that he'd be fit to resume his duties with New Scotland Yard as soon as possible.

The last time John had spoken to Greg, though, he hadn't been sure whether he ever wanted to go back to his old job again. It was going to take several weeks before the Detective Inspector had got his head back on straight and was ready to confront London's criminal classes again.

Victor hadn't been in contact at all. Both John and Sherlock had texted their friend, but according to Sherlock the absence of any response was a clear signal that Victor didn't want to have anything to do with them for the time being.

John didn't know how he felt about that.

Over the past several months, Victor had become a good friend despite the occasional difference of opinion between them. John trusted Victor and, most of all, empathised with him. He knew all too well how much Victor had suffered in the wake of Sherlock's 'death', and how hard he was now struggling with the fact that Sherlock was alive but had ended up choosing John.

In more than one respect.

No matter how logical Sherlock's decision might have been to allow Victor to be shot so that John wouldn't receive the final dose of poison, deep down it must feel like a betrayal. John had no idea whether Victor would ever get over that.

The consequence was that of being left with the bitter aftertaste of loss, even though Sherlock had won Moriarty's game.

John hoped fervently that he would be able to help Sherlock conquer the dark thoughts that surfaced from time to time as a result of those feelings of guilt. There was no way that he was going to allow Moriarty to achieve a victory in overtime as a result of Sherlock slowly falling apart from the effects of those psychotic mind games.

John pulled away from Mrs Hudson when the kettle automatically shut off with a click. A short while later, they were all sitting together at the kitchen table eating fresh scones from the café next door and drinking tea while Mrs Hudson told them about her nieces and nephews.

 

******

 

John's gaze wandered over the light reflexes caught in Sherlock's hair, combing his fingers through the soft curls as if trying to catch the golden specks. He dug his fingers in hard when Sherlock surprised him by doing something particularly filthy with his tongue. His breath caught, only to escape his lungs a moment later in a shaky sigh.

His pelvis rose of its own accord, trying to penetrate further into the wet heat of that gifted mouth. At the same time, he tensed the muscles in his buttocks, clenching around the fingers pushing insistently inside him. He wasn't sure if there were two or three. His body buzzed with euphoria, balanced on the thin line between arousal and relaxation, completely free of all the meaningless trivialities of daily existence.

To have all of Sherlock's attention focused on him was sometimes too much of a good thing. But at the moment, John was enjoying the fact that the detective knew how to interpret the meaning of each and every move and gasp. It was like letting go and arriving at the same time. Like reaching a destination after a long journey. A destination that John hadn't even known he was aiming for.

All of the insecurities and doubts about his identity lay in the past, now that he'd finally understood that none of that mattered anyway. He'd never thought much of being sorted into boxes, yet he'd always tried to line himself up with categories that had never really fit.

Now John didn't need any abstract labels anymore to name his feelings for Sherlock; no definitions to make it easier for others to force their relationship into some pre-conceived mould. The only thing that mattered was that they had each other, that they loved and respected one another.

"You're distracted," Sherlock rumbled between John's spread legs. His gaze scanned quicksilver blue over heated skin, causing tiny shivers that flitted through John's body in time with his pulse.

John shook his head with a smile. The warm feeling in his heart expanded, filling him up until he felt as if he would burst at any moment.

"Just wondering how long you're going to keep me hanging." There was no complaint; rather a teasing challenge to test the limits of Sherlock's control.

"I have a lot to catch up..." Sherlock replied, dipping back in again. He knew exactly how to create tension with his lips and tongue, how to make clever use of his teeth to drive John to the precipice of insanity. How much pressure he needed to exert on the sensitive bundle of nerves inside John in order to draw an involuntary sob from his throat. Almost despairing, on the cusp of begging for release.

Their bare bodies gleamed with moisture in the light from the setting sun which fell through the window into their bedroom. Sweaty strands of hair stuck to John's forehead, and smouldering heat coated his cheeks and chest with a red cast.

Sherlock was also a sight to behold. His hair was wild, his pupils dilated wide. His lips, glistening wetly and already slightly swollen, encircled John's erection over and over, dotting random kisses and serving as advance and rear guard for his teeth and tongue.

John's thoughts kept cutting off in the middle, washed away by waves of desire. He finally gave up and let himself go with the flow. He scraped his dry lips with his teeth, sighing mindlessly into the empty space above them. Suddenly impatient, he strengthened his grip on Sherlock's hair, pulled him up to John's level, and reared up to meet him. Their mouths met halfway, devouring each other. Tender bites. Shared breath on searing lips. Skin on skin, marked by countless fingerprints. Sweet nothings whispered into warm, damp spaces.

Driven by lust and impatience, John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, drawing him close, demanding, so that his erection slid over Sherlock's. Once, twice, until the eager quivering in Sherlock's arms became too obvious and he sat up to reach for the half-full tube of lubricant gel. No sooner had he distributed enough of the viscous liquid on his cock, than he positioned himself and pushed in through John's dilated ring of muscle.

John inhaled sharply, grabbed the backs of his knees, and concentrated on the sensations setting his stimulated nerves on fire. He broke out in gooseflesh as Sherlock slowly, relentlessly pushed into him, obviously trying to temper his pace.

Their eyes were locked on each other the whole time until Sherlock had sunk all the way into John. He held himself up on his elbows and kissed John possessively. John let go of his legs so that he could hug Sherlock instead, squeezing him as close as possible. He ran his hands over Sherlock's damp skin, put them into his unruly curls, and returned the kisses with equal passion.

Not too long ago he wouldn't have been able to imagine himself ever experiencing intimacy like this with another man. Before, he'd dismissed any thoughts that went in this direction as misguided, only allowing them in a setting of absolute isolation from the outside world; even then, he'd felt ashamed afterwards.

It was awful that people like his father and Phil continued to uphold and fan the flames of that fear. That they questioned other people's identities despite it being absolutely none of their business.

That they didn't understand love...

But John had overcome all that now. Nothing was going to make him renounce his love for Sherlock just because it didn't fit into some people's image of the world.

John reached for Sherlock, seeking something to ground him, and dug his fingers into the taut flesh of Sherlock's arse so he could pull him in even closer. He greedily caught Sherlock's panting gasp, tugging none too gently on his plump bottom lip. Their joint rhythm faltered when Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged into a deep kiss. He clawed into John's thigh with his right hand, drawing him in firmly as if trying to fuse them into one.

John writhed beneath Sherlock, filled up and utterly immersed, urging him onward with his hands and whispered words, pressing against him with feet and calves. Sparks danced across his skin. His blood boiled in his veins.

The ecstasy was almost unbearable. Almost too much yet still not enough. John bit back a hiss when Sherlock suddenly grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. Sherlock's tongue seared John's skin where he licked John's neck, right over the frantically throbbing pulse point, only to cool it a moment later with his panted breaths.

Sherlock pushed himself up with one hand beside John on the mattress, sat up the rest of the way, and draped John's legs over his shoulders. He leaned forward so that John's thighs were pressed against his own chest, grasped John's wrists, and pushed them down into the pillow over his head. Thus immobilised, the only thing John could do was surrender.

Sherlock had realised early on that John liked being held down. Being moved into position and vanquished. Maybe he'd even known it before John, who never would have admitted to such submissive behaviour. John was secretly glad that he didn't have to say it out loud, that he wouldn't be laughed at for it. Just the opposite: Sherlock was happy to assume the role of the dominant partner, as it enabled him, without inhibition, to unleash the passions he felt but rarely allowed to surface from day to day.

John's head felt as if it had been swept clean. Sherlock not only filled his entire field of vision, but every cell in his body too. Every hard thrust shook John in a way that made him feel completely owned, making him moan hoarsely and pant for air. The slap of skin on skin filled the room. John twisted and turned with the urge to touch himself and bring himself to climax, but Sherlock held him in an iron grip.

"Sh-Sherlock... please... I... I want..."

The expected denial never came. Instead, Sherlock sat up without slowing his thrusts, let go of John's hands, and spread his legs apart. Heat flared in his eyes when John reached for his cock and pumped it rapidly up and down; the reddened tip, wet with pre-come, kept peeping out from his fist.

It only took a few seconds before John's orgasm crashed over him. His muscles contracted uncontrolledly. His abdominal muscles clenched so tight that his torso rose from the bed and a choked-off moan squeezed out of his throat. Semen coated his fingers, dotting his chest and beading across his waist. He fisted the sheets with his free hand and let the delirious sensations float through his body.

Sherlock, who had barely slowed his movement while devouring the scene in front of him, now bent down to John and kissed him, teasing John's tongue with his. He climaxed shortly thereafter. Pushing deep into John's body, he was only partially able to hold back a groan that sounded as if it were verging on pain. He threw his head back and gasped audibly for air, lazily rotating his hips in order to enjoy the last few drops of pleasure.

John pulled Sherlock into his arms, gently running his fingers through Sherlock's sweaty curls and dropping random kisses all over his face and shoulders. They rested like that, firmly wrapped around each other, until their frantic heartbeats had calmed; even then, they were reluctant to part.

An absent-minded smile played on Sherlock's reddened lips. He lay down beside John, drew him close again, and tenderly brushed a few wayward strands of hair off his forehead.

John returned the smile and kissed him.

Peace settled over them.

Soon, Sherlock's head lay heavy on John's shoulder, his breaths coming slow and deep. John's fingers wandered absently along Sherlock's arm where it was draped over John's chest.

The sun had gone down by now. What little light was left in the room was tinted blue and fading. John sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but it was still difficult for him to turn off and let sleep come to him. It was a little like when he'd woken up for the first time in the hospital in Kandahar. Every time he'd closed his eyes, no matter what time it was, nightmares had jolted him back awake a short while later.

It was true that the images of his fallen comrades and futile rescue attempts on the operating table had become rarer. But in return, Moriarty's presence had increased. Those dark eyes. The constant threat of danger hanging over John and Sherlock like Damocles’ sword.

John still felt a deep-seated fear that the madman would turn up again, force his way into their lives, and try to destroy them. How much time needed to pass before he'd overcome that fear? It was impossible to say. Maybe he would never feel safe as long as he knew that Moriarty was walking free.

A sound make John start. It was the muffled click of the lock on 221B's door being opened. Maybe it was just Mrs Hudson bringing them something to eat; but before the rational part of John's brain had arrived at that conclusion, he'd already jumped up and leapt over the bed. He scrabbled his underpants up from the floor and stepped into them. They would give him more freedom of movement than one of Sherlock's dressing gowns. Soundlessly, he stepped to the bedroom door and listened intently.

He heard soft, firm steps: definitely not Mrs Hudson's light pitter-patter. His heart pounding, John took his gun out of the bedside table, checked it with practised motions, and released the safety. He knew that the bedroom door couldn't be opened silently: it always creaked a little, so he'd have to react quickly before the potential intruder dove for cover.

Making his decision, John tore the door open and ran into the kitchen, his gun drawn. Through the open passageway leading into the living room, he caught sight of a tall figure standing facing the window, sparsely illuminated by the light of the street lamps. The click of the gun when John cocked it sounded unnaturally loud in the silent flat.

"I don't think that will be necessary, Doctor Watson."

"Mycroft...? What... what the hell are you doing here? I nearly..." John fell silent, put the safety back on, and set the gun down on the kitchen table. "Fuck..." He ran both of his hands through his hair and scratched his scalp. His skin was covered in cold sweat. His tense muscles were quivering. He felt Mycroft's calculating gaze on him only too well.

"John..."

John hadn't even heard Sherlock coming out of the bedroom. Not good. Soft fabric settled on his shoulders as Sherlock enveloped him in a dressing gown and pulled him in close, burying his face in the crook of John's neck and murmuring soothing words.

"Everything's fine. I'm sorry... I forgot to tell you Mycroft was going to drop by today..."

"Damn it, Sherlock..." John protested half-heartedly. Embarrassed at his misjudgement and the obvious signs of intimacy between himself and Sherlock, John averted his eyes.

"Please forgive me, John. It was not my intention to frighten you," Mycroft apologised with unaccustomed tact. He waited patiently until his brother had separated himself from John and joined him in the living room.

John stayed in the kitchen, not yet ready to face the situation. He knotted the sash of the dressing gown to cover himself, and maybe make himself feel a little less vulnerable. He listened to the two brothers' conversation with one ear as he started to make tea.

"Any news?" Sherlock asked. He'd also tossed on a dressing gown and, remarkably, was not displaying any displeasure towards his brother.

"Agent Ashworth has been cleared. She's passed all the new background checks and psychological tests. There's no reason to continue to suspect her of collaborating with Moriarty. My personal preference would be to replace the entire team, but I'm also aware that the desire has its roots in my own insecurities."

John turned to the elder Holmes and caught his eye. It was more than unusual for Mycroft to allow anything like weakness to show through his icy facade, and John knew right away that he was doing it for John's sake. Mycroft had been duped as well, robbed of his sense of security, and had had to pay for it. For a man whose trust was difficult to win in the first place, a betrayal like this must be difficult to bear.

John nodded his acknowledgment to Mycroft, letting him know that he appreciated the effort, before returning his attention to the three teacups.

"We haven't been able to discover what caused Anthea to work with Moriarty. As far as we know, none of her known family members or friends were threatened. At least not overtly. She apparently met Moriarty during her studies. He was going by the name of Richard Brook at the time. The file has been placed on the back burner for the time being. But that's not the reason I'm here."

Sherlock grunted his understanding and accepted the folder which Mycroft held out to him.

"We've found him."

Abandoning the tea, John hurried over to the other two men and glanced at the photographs in the folder. There were several snapshots of a man wearing a baseball cap in the colours of the Union Jack with a red-and-white letterman's jacket. The cords of his white ear buds disappeared into the top of the jacket at his neck.

John doubted that the ridiculously casual clothing would fool anyone who had ever been in James Moriarty's presence before. Not even the youthful, almost naive expression on his face could conceal the man's profoundly diabolical nature.

To judge by the buildings in the background, Moriarty was clearly in some large European metropolis. Old buildings and stone sculptures showing signs of weathering were visible in nearly every picture.

"He was last seen in Venice. We suspect he's moving south. Of course, he may simply be trying to obscure his trail. My people have him under constant surveillance, but I can't guarantee he'll stay there for long... We should move as quickly as possible."

John could virtually feel the tension emanating from Sherlock. Their eyes met over the photos. The unasked question hovered between them, as good as tangible.

"I'm not letting you go alone," John said firmly.

For a fraction of a second, Sherlock's expression vacillated between worry and relief, but then he nodded and gave his brother a sober look. "Prepare everything that we'll need. We'll be ready to leave in an hour at most."

"Good... Agent Ashworth will pick you up and discuss the rest of the details with you." Mycroft turned to face John. "Can I rely on nothing happening to Sherlock on your watch?"

John laughed mirthlessly. "It's almost as if you've never worked with Sherlock before... You know he always gets himself into hot water. But I can assure you that I'll do everything in my power to make sure nothing happens to him!"

Mycroft struggled to suppress the smirk tugging at his lips. He nodded once, exchanged a meaningful look with his brother, then left the Baker Street flat.

As soon as Mycroft had left the living room, Sherlock turned to John and clasped his face with both of his hands. He pressed their lips together, kissing John over and over, and leaned his forehead against John's.

"Are you really sure this is what you want? You know what he's capable of..."

John grasped Sherlock's wrist and nodded. "Yeah, absolutely. I cannot allow that madman to continue to direct our lives. The thought that you wanted to go out and destroy his network on your own once already made me crazy, Sherlock. And I know you want him under lock and key as much as I do. So..." John took a deep breath and rubbed Sherlock's arms bracingly. "Let's do it together."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed John again.

"Ready when you are, John."

 

+++

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers,  
> Thank you for sticking it out so bravely and leaving so many comments. I was tickled by every single one. It's wonderful to have a little interaction!  
> And I'd be amiss if I didn't once again thank my dearest beta bee and co-plotter, Belladonna, who provided help and advice several times, and of course SwissMiss who surpassed my expectations of the translation by far! There would be no Vertigo without them! :-*  
> Till next time,  
> kirin


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